Like Ghosts in the Snow
by Notus Lethe
Summary: So, it goes down like this: Warren thinks his father killed his mother, his mother betrayed the heroes, and heroes are everything to be trusted. The summer after freshman year, he finds out differently. Oh, and, to top it off, superpowered kids? Gone.
1. suspicions

**Like Ghosts in the Snow**  
_by_ Charisma  
_fandom:_ Sky High  
_disclaimer: _The mouse owns everything you recognize. Everything you don't, well, they own themselves. I just put down their words. Sometimes reluctantly.  
_summary:_ Love. Death. Betrayal. Hate. Lies. Truth. Revelations. Secrets aren't meant to be kept. Warren learns the hard way.

* * *

_"Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.__" - John Milton, Paradise Lost_

* * *

He was having the dream again. 

Firefly was struggling against her bonds, blood trickling down the ink flames of her wrists as she cut them with metal. She was hurting, hurting so badly, but no one was letting her go. Tears formed in her eyes; they hissed when they tried to leave, her body utterly rejecting the captivity. Screams tore themselves free, but their meaning had been lost in the collar surrounding her throat. She could still fly, hovering a scant two inches above the ground. Subtler powers too, but they could hardly assist. Didn't her captive realize he was hurting her?

"You're hurting her!" he cried. No one listened. He raced forward, clawing at the metal rings around her wrists, flaring his powers and finding them useless. She wasn't looking at him, never did, eyes staring forward with such disbelief, he knew it meant the ultimate betrayal.

It happened then, as it always did. The inches fell from her feet and her knees crumbled like a Roman soldier had been ordered. Blood seeped copiously, allowed to now there was no strain for life. Her head made a thwak noise when it hit the floor. A low breathy laughter filled the air and when he turned around he knew exactly what he would see:

His father killed his mother. Every night.

* * *

Just because he had friends didn't mean he had to sit or in any way associate with them. In fact, he'd spent the better part of the last year convincing them that yes, they were still friends, and no, this didn't mean staying around each other constantly. Even the Paper Lantern had lost its haven status. A strong showing of willpower on his part had finally convinced them that he didn't need company at his table. No, really. No, for God's sake don't – alright. So maybe he hadn't been as effective as he wanted to be in getting them to sit somewhere else. At least it wasn't every day. So far. God – what happened to the good ol' days? 

Tuesday night, then, it wasn't unusual for him to ignore the fact that there was a girl donning green seated by herself in the third booth from the left, pushing the half-eaten remains of an eggroll around her plate, endlessly. She stayed when all the customers left, when Ken and Meilan Chiang wandered past him dubiously, when he had finished cleaning out all the ovens in the back. She stayed until he came back out, dishrags adorning him like jewelry.

"You know, we closed about an hour ago."

"I know," she said, defiance lurking warily around her chin.

He gestured to her plate with a rag-beheld hand. "I already cleaned all the sinks and dishwashers. Now I'll have to go back and clean'em all again."

There. Her lips parted and worry lanced through those too-expressive eyes. Either he was getting better at this, or the audience was just too damn susceptible. Probably the latter.

"Oh geez, Warren, I'm sorry. I didn't think it would-"

Passing a hand over her plate, he knew the searing heat cleaned just as well as any dishwasher, evaporating all traces of food. He sat and settled back into the booth, doing well at not smirking, dusting off the table with his rag.

"Not that much of a problem." He'd tried to find a suitable nickname for her, something derogatory but not harsh, so she'd know that they were friends – nothing comfortable. He'd found nothing except her own name. Damn. "You ready to leave, or do you two need some time alone?"

He pointed a finger at the orchids, who'd sprouted all over the table and off the sides. Layla turned a nice shade of red, twisting her fingers. A nervous habit of hers, one he'd found to mean several things, all of which involved a deep conversation with him. Oh, if only the joys in his life would never end.

"Sorry about that. I get nervous, and they looked so sad in their little pot – they just wanted to comfort me a little bit." Layla was, in spite of everything else and all evidence to the contrary, honest and mostly straightforward. She was hesitating though, and he hoped it wouldn't end up leading him down a path of world-saving again. He was working seventy hours next week.

"Does whatever you're about to tell me, or ask me, involve me spending more time than I should away from my job?"

"What? I- no. No, it doesn't but- it just-" Exasperated. "Warren, are you okay?"

He could hear himself blink.

Wrongly taking this as a sign of not understanding, Layla uneasily elaborated. "I just mean, well the last time we were all together, you were sort of distant. Well, more distant than normal. Will and I've been talking, and it doesn't seem like you. You're just… distracted. Like you're-" She reached out to touch the dark circles he knew prevailed under his eyes. When he flinched, her fingers curled back on themselves. "Like you're in pain."

"I can take care of myself," he said automatically. But Layla wouldn't just give up that easily; he wasn't Will after all. He bared his teeth, and hoped she mistook it for a smile. "The Chiangs get busy during the summer. With no extra help, I've had to work a lot. If I'm the subject of Will and your pillowtalk, you two are the ones who need help."

Her cheeks turned rosy and Warren considered it a job well-done.

"You should talk about getting more help then," she said hurriedly. That was a good idea.

* * *

Ten days later, he convinced the Chiangs that they needed to hire another worker. They acquiesced quickly enough, but there was a slight problem when Ken suggested that Warren head the interview process. It took another two days for him to be persuaded. Three days after that, he finalized the ad, put up "Help Wanted" signs, and began receiving resumes. Only a day passed before he remembered why he had rejected the human race for a life of solitude. 

They were all insane.

Two guys had come in sleepwear, inclusive of undershirts and boxers. One girl appeared to have taken Magenta's make-up kit and exploded it on her face. Even more frightening another girl had burst out into tears, then proceeded to give him an intensive run-down of her five-year relationship that had just ended. When a Russian girl who could barely stumble through English tried to convince him she could speak fluent 'Chinese,' he fully thought of killing himself.

Other than those and a few more shining examples, though, he found a Bruno Chiauci who seemed to be competent and able to do the labor required of him. Chiauci had worked three years as a laborer on a farm. A little kitchen work would be nothing. He'd call back tomorrow, hire Chiauci, and get Layla off his back. Maybe he could invest in something that'd get rid of the circles too, so she didn't notice them. The chime that meant someone was entering the restaurant sounded, and he knew it was much too late for customers. Layla, again?

He said nothing, rolling up his sleeves past his elbows and setting down the rags he'd been cleaning with. Tingling, a familiar sensation, worried the marks on his arms, begging for a battle. Once, he thought that passion belonged to his father, but he later found that both parents loved a vigorous fight. Sometimes, it was hard to tell the good from the evil.

Peering around the corner towards the front desk, Warren spotted the intruder. A girl, around his age, held her back straight as she searched for life. She was tall, awkwardly so, moving like a newborn fawn, with mousy brown hair pulled back tight from an angular face, eyes sharp, if somewhat murky green-brown, and a long aquiline nose that was perpetually turned up so she could stare down. He couldn't much make out what she was wearing, but it was a dark suit of some kind, a skirt swirling around her calves. She looked like she belonged in a Catholic school - not some random Chinese restaurant.

"Hello?" He waited a few moments, watching her eyes nervously dart around the room. Something dark in color was clutched to her chest.

"We're closed for the night." A shiver of disappointment when she didn't jump.

"I know. I saw your ad in the paper, and I wanted to apply for the job in person."

One pointed glance at the clock, reading nearly an hour after closing time, substituted for the verbal bash. "The position's been filled."

"You should reconsider."

"Yeah?"

"I'm what you're looking for."

He grinned. "You know what I'm looking for, then."

She didn't seem impressed. He took it for a good sign, cocked his hip out for a long stay. "Look, I just know that whoever you got won't do as good a job as I will."

"You have a lot of experience then." She was steadily moving closer, and while he held his ground, Warren hoped she'd come around to moving back.

"This would be my first job," she said, flushing unpleasantly up the side of her face. "But trust me, you won't regret it."

"I can't-"

The glass door opened with a bit more force than necessary, and the chime jangled loudly. In the door frame, the dark sky behind him flashing with summer stormclouds, was Mr. Chiang. A short Chinese man with buzzed graying hair and glasses much too big, round, and 80s to look good with his face, Mr. Chiang had inherited the Paper Lantern from his father, and had every intention of keeping it a family establishment with moderate prices. He also rarely spoke anything but Mandarin, and absolutely abhorred the fact that his wife would only speak Cantonese. Their discussions would make most people's heads spin, but it was also one of the reasons they had lasted for thirty-seven years. Warren Peace, the child he and his wife adopted when the boy was only five, didn't know that he was a soft spot for both parents, neither willing to show how much sway he had with them. Eleven rounds of rock, paper, scissors had landed Mr. Chiang in the position he was currently in.

The boy's dark face immediately paled. Oh yes, he was well taught.

"I leave you in charge of the restaurant and you can't even close it on time?"

"Mr. Chiang –"

"Forgive me," the girl spoke up in heavily accented Mandarin. Mr. Chiang hadn't even noticed her, but was now thoroughly attuned. "It is my fault that the restaurant is not closed yet. I came in about the job without permission and I am very sorry for any… thing… bad."

Her Mandarin was atrocious, probably picked up from an American who'd had another American for a teacher, but Mr. Chiang appreciated the effort.

"I'm done with everything, Mr. Chiang. I was just closing up," Warren said, hardly acknowledging the girl.

"Is this the one you're hiring to work here?"

Warren frowned. "No. I've already decided-"

"Does the other one speak Mandarin?"

Through gritted teeth. "I didn't think to ask."

"Hire her. She speaks Mandarin well enough. It'll be good for her to hear native speakers." Warren looked as though he'd rather lick the floors clean after Friday night's rush. Just for that, Mr. Chiang tagged on a "And don't close up my restaurant so late! You can finish it early now, with this girl around."

He left, satisfied. Meilan would be angry the girl didn't speak Cantonese, he would have a new student to teach, and maybe Warren would even get a date. Not bad for a night's work.

"That doesn't mean anything."

The girl grinned, too many teeth and her lips pulling grotesquely. "It means I have a job."

"It means," he said, resignation reluctantly coating his words, "that you start tomorrow, 4 o'clock. Wear black pants and a white shirt. I'm Warren Peace."

"Darcy Bennett. Is your name really Warren Peace?"

"My mother had a thing for Russian literature. Is your name really Darcy Bennett?"

"My mother had a thing for Jane Austen. See you tomorrow, Tolstoy."

It was in that very moment, that Warren began to hate Darcy Bennett.

* * *

Things at the Stronghold household rarely seemed out of place. Mr. Stronghold could walk in carrying a severed arm bleeding blue, and no one would miss a bite of their toast. When the group of friends Zach had once tried to dub the 'Zach Pack' (superficially modeled after the Rat/Brat Pack, but when bearing no resemblance to such, was quickly shut down) met at the Stronghold residence, they were never taken by surprise. One sunny Saturday afternoon, while watching Layla and Ethan cook, since the rest of them only managed sandwiches and cinders, the air seemed a little uneasy. Warren could also cook, but no one ever asked him to, and he never did. At the moment, when Layla asked someone to give her the oregano and Warren was the closest to it, there was almost a collective gasp. 

Warren had come over deceptively calm. This usually meant he was going to burn something to the ground.

He passed the oregano. Layla didn't catch on fire. The breath let out.

"I'm not angry at _her_," Warren said, taking a moment to look pointedly at Zach. Even though Zach had done nothing, it always made him feel better to watch the glowworm flinch. A by-product of his father. Maybe.

"We did notice you seemed a little… upset," Layla dared over her shoulder, intent on the gumbo she was stewing.

"That's the understatement of the year," Magenta muttered, effectively hidden behind Zach.

"A bad week, that's all." And so it was all. There was little to argue with Warren. No one would trespass when Warren put up the signs; only recently had Will stopped accepting the harsh nicknames (not that he'd gotten anything better than 'Stronghold,' but it was a start).

Soon, Layla pronounced the gumbo done, Ethan claimed the bread risen, and Zach managed to find an old VHS copy of the original Adam West Batman series. Heaven seemed to descend on the Stronghold home. There was little to be done other than stuff their faces and mock bad television.

They arranged themselves, somehow all falling over one another, together without being a puppy heap. There were understandings – Warren was alone, Layla and Will were touching – but they're together just the same. Burt Ward's Robin made a 'Holy priceless collection of Etruscan snoods, Batman!' which was apparently a signal for Warren to get up and leave. Having the entire plant universe on her side, it was silently unanimously agreed that Layla would sacrifice herself for the team. She warned of pothoses attacking them in their sleep; they seemed unafraid.

Just as she rounded the corner, Warren had stepped out of the bathroom and flared his hands. He probably just did it to dry them, but she had to gulp a knot down in her throat just the same. They caught each other's eyes at the same time.

"You blinked," he said.

"What?"

"Whoever blinks first is the loser. You blinked; I win." Quirked an eyebrow. "No more Batman for you?"

"Well, you know, there's only so much Adam West a person can take…" She smiled, he grinned, she looked down at her hands. "I-"

"Layla," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "You have a boyfriend – worry about him. I hired help at the restaurant."

"Good."

"Get back to your Batman." Then he grinned again, a little evilly. "Flower child."

* * *

Dana Goldberg danced as she walked home. Her feet moved quickly, artfully, tracing patterns in the ground. Whenever she finished off a design and gave one extra stamp, the drawing would spring from the ground fully formed. Two roses, then a tulip, all of which she gathered and pressed close to her chest. Dana tucked them into her belt, raised her hands, and started the routine Mme. Dupont was teaching her class. 

After her session with Dupont, Dana had quickly gone down two streets to Lydia's house. It was the only time she could sneak away. Dana had only kissed her for the first time last week, and it was still so very new. When she'd brought up the subject, her mother had wrinkled her nose, said it was fine for others, but would probably think differently if it were her own children. But Dana paid little heed, humming as she moved into the second half, arms spreading gracefully around her.

Lydia said everything would work out. Besides, they were only fifteen. There really wasn't any need to get all tragic romance.

She was on Turner Street, nearly home. Moving her stance so that her legs were spread and arms tucked in her sides, Dana began a series of jumps. The last one, she landed, and twirled around, sticking her arms out in a pose.

Something slammed her in the back, and she was unconscious before she hit the ground.

* * *

"Again. One, two, three! I win!" 

"One more time."

"Alright, but no cheating. One, two, three! Oh damnit."

"Ovens."

"You were seriously cheating that time. I saw it."

"Ovens. And sweep the floor."

"Best three out of five?" When she saw he was about to add something else, she raised her hands in defeat. "Alright. Ovens and sweeping."

Warren sat in the corner, closing out the registers. He added up the totals, and noted with satisfaction that there was only a two dollar and seventy-two cent discrepancy. It'd come out of his pay, but at least the number was lessening. Tiffany had been getting fewer hours, and he suspected the money missing from the registers had been linked to her. There wasn't nearly enough evidence to fire her, but she'd be given less and less hours until she would finally leave. It was an easier way.

Darcy, while definitely not the hire Bruno Chiauci would have been, learned the restaurant in time. She had spent the first few days not cleaning things hard enough, not removing dishes fast enough, and not minding his orders well enough. There was improvement, but he could always go back over her work and criticize. A small joy, but fulfilling all the same.

Finishing up the registers, Warren moved back to the kitchen, so he could see if he might indulge in that little pastime. Darcy was sticking out of one of the ovens. Her legs, clad in too-long black men's pants with obligatory Converse shoes dangling off the end, kicked rhythmically to the music she had blaring. She'd worked nearly every night this week, claming that she didn't have anything better to do. While waiting for her to surface long enough for him to frighten her, he inspected the other ovens. It was obvious which ones she hadn't done yet, a feat not accomplished her first three days on the job. She squirmed out of the oven in an uncoordinated wriggle. He waited until she stood straight, finger-combed her hair back into her braid, and surveyed her handiwork. Then, a gentle touch on the shoulder.

The wild flailing and near-tumble was more than satisfying.

"Finished?"

"If by finished you mean cleaned all the ovens and swept the floor, then no Tolstoy – I haven't finished." She gestured towards the ovens in the back. Her eyes vowed a revenge that she'd not yet take upon him. Two days had passed before he noticed that her eyes weren't a murky brown, but a nice leafy green. Must've been the light. "I have those two, then sweeping, then I'm done."

"I'll sweep," he said. "I'm finished out front."

"Alright." Darcy propped herself up on the edge of another oven. "Hey – do you want to play a game?"

"Game?"

"Yeah. I ask you a question, you answer it honestly, then you ask me one and I answer it honestly."

"That's not a game. Games have winners and losers. That's just a ploy."

"Sure it's a game. The loser is the first person to not answer a question." She glanced over her shoulder at him, shrugging a little. "But if you're scared…"

If the first wasn't a ploy, the second definitely was. There were a few questions, though, he had been wanting to ask. Besides – it was very unlikely she'd ask him if he had superpowers.

"Who'll go first?"

"You just did," she said, laughing in the loud guffaw way she had, then dove back into the oven. "When did you start working at this restaurant?"

"Started cleaning dishes when I was eight. Where are you from originally?"

She poked her head out, grinned. "Nice, being specific and all. I'm from Tulane, Louisiana. What happened to your parents?"

"They went home for the night." He saw her look out to glare at him, mouth open to protest, and then close when she realized she hadn't been specific enough. "How did you learn Mandarin?"

"My dad's a professor at Tulane University of Chinese Studies. He speaks Mandarin, Cantonese, and three other Chinese dialects. Mandarin was the only thing he taught me." She climbed out, inspected the oven, and moved on to the next one. Her answer was a little too explanatory, and he wondered if she thought that meant he would be too. "Where'd you get those tattoos on your arms?"

"They're not tattoos. And they're from my mother." Finished sweeping, he checked out the one oven she did, perching on the edge of the counter. "What do you want?"

Darcy came out of the oven, sitting, watching. "Just a little more control." Her eyes were far too serious; there was definitely something behind this 'game.' "What's your deepest fear?"

"That I'll end up like my father." There. A spark in her eyes, a little 'aha!' that meant she'd found whatever she was looking for. Maybe Warren was being paranoid, but he had a supervillian for a father, a corpse for a mother, and a friend's girlfriend for a first villain faced – nothing was beyond scope. He pulled out the trump card, the question he'd been saving for when he needed to end this game. "Why did you come here?"

Hopping off the oven, Darcy said nothing. Then, she crossed her arms and gave him a small cold smile. "Good night, Tolstoy."

Warren watched her leave. "You blinked; I win."

* * *

Maybe it was a little too much. Not only had he volunteered (if growling out an 'Oh I'll do it' counted as volunteering) to bring the night's entertainment, but he grumbled that he'd bring food too. Now, he stumbled down the road, balancing way too much Chinese food in one arm, and a bag of old, badly dubbed martial arts movies in the other. He damn well hoped they appreciated it, because it was never happening again. 

As soon as Will opened the door, face drawn, Warren knew something was wrong. Something that orange chicken was just not going to fix. When he went into the kitchen, dumping his load on the island, the theory that something was wrong grew into fact. Zach was sitting closer to Magenta than she usually allowed, hands hovering around her shoulders. Layla paced, Will worried his fingernails, and Ethan pressed against the wall as though trying to bleed into it.

"What's going on?"

"Dana Goldberg is missing."

"Okay…?" Warren glanced at everyone, but they all seemed reluctant to speak. Hmm.

Magenta piped up again, anger lancing through her voice. "She was my friend. And a freshman at Sky High."

Ah. That explained the panic. Normal kids went missing all the time – after all, this wasn't Nebraska, where there weren't enough kids to kidnap. But this kid was special, had powers, and kids with powers don't just disappear.

"So, out of everyone with superpowers, we were designated to, what, save her?"

"We weren't designated to do anything," Will said, fingernails safe once again. "But it seems like no one's doing anything yet. Magenta says it's not like Dana to just leave. She's one of those dependable, boring people."

"Ah. So, since she's boring, we're going to launch an investigation." Just as he said it, Warren realized the thought hadn't occurred to any of them. Great. The spark started in Layla's eyes, the need to save people, and worked its way to Ethan, whose brain was already organizing.

"If we talk to her parents and friends, we can see if anyone had a reason to take her," Ethan said.

"We cannot start an investigation."

Magenta sat up, eyes shining with initiation. "I can make a list of her friends."

Both Zach and Will shrugged, and Zach put out his hands. "Tell me what to do, and we'll have ourselves a mystery!"

"We cannot start an investigation."

But the seed was set, and Warren knew he was not going to get out of it. Damn.

* * *

Twenty seconds after he'd walked into his house, Warren knew he was not alone. It wasn't the sharp darting shivers down his spine, a sure sign a fight was lurking, but instead the sort of tingling around the back of his neck. Damn. He needed a bit more human contact. Took one step around the corner, listening. 

"Oh really Warren. If I was gonna sneak up on you, I'd do a little whirly whoo thing. And yes, those are official terms." A girl, dressed entirely in white except for a sash of turquoise across her chest, appeared in front of him, hands firmly on hips. Winnie Storms, marked with the incredibly ridiculous nickname Freeze Girl, had a tendency to barrel into whatever she was doing. If that included doors and privacy laws, so be it. Her white-blonde hair was up in some weird fancy twist, something so complicated girls had to take special classes to accomplish it. Her face was spattered with something shiny and blue and Warren was pretty certain that it would hypnotize you if you stared at it too long.

"Why are you here?"

Winnie frowned, something the shiny stuff of her lips made pretty. It was distracting. "I can't come visit my best bud?"

A look. She huffed, bangs flying in disarray.

"Fine. There's been stuff going on, and you're the most badass person I know. You know Dana Goldberg's gone missing? There's rumors, that she's been kidnapped. Like, taken against her will." Winnie put her hands in her hair again, moving restlessly. "Maybe there's somewhere safe to go? Maybe a super secret leftover villain hideout you wanna take me to?"

Winnie, while attempting to manifest the blonde stereotype many associated with her, was a little more intelligent than most people she met. She manipulated her words, making others view her as sub-par, then blasted them with some ridiculously genius comment. It was an event Warren knew he wouldn't tire of seeing. After all, it had been that very things that made them friends when the cover of homecoming ended.

"If I had a super secret villain hideout, don't you think I'd be there?"

Still poking around, touching the Buddhist shrine Meilan put up in the hallway, Winnie rolled her eyes at him. "No, I don't. You been hanging out with the Stronghold kid. He wants to change the world, ya know. You better be careful – he'll make you change it too."

Now that was a comment to ignore. "You knew Dana Goldberg?"

Winnie, having found a couch that suited her, plopped down and grinned up at him. She was too bright to be sitting in his dark, empty house. "You kiddin'? Me and Dana were always hanging out. She usually had Katrina there. You met Katrina Libowitz? She's a junior, I think, but she and Dana really hit it off in their phys ed class. Then me and Dana… it just grew from there. Katrina's man'a the moment, damn if I forget his name, tried calling us the three muskets or something. I called Kat, but she don't know what's up either."

"Can you give me her phone number?" Warren asked, deciding to leave the 'three muskets' comment where it was.

"Kat's? Sure thing." With some superpower beyond comprehension, Winnie pulled out a pad of paper and a pen from the three-inch purse she'd brought with her. She watched him fold it up, put it in his jacket pocket, then settle down next to her. "You wanna make out?"

He gave her another look. The first one had meant you aren't fooling me with that. This one was more of a sarcastic are you kidding and a resigned my parents taught me not to.

"Fine, fine. You go all noble on me. I swear I'm gonna freeze the hell out of that Stronghold kid." She chuckled, moved so she could see all of Warren's face. "Tell me: how are you going to entertain me while I'm here?"

* * *

"I'm sorry – you have to leave." 

Layla looked the wrong side of bewildered, glancing around. Her demeanor was too sweet to tell the girl Warren usually let her stay after. She tried to speak, but all her hands did was move about like they were words. He found them like that, Darcy twisting a rag around her hands, and Layla sputtering in politeness.

"There a problem?"

Darcy visibly stiffened, shoulders rigid, spine ramrod, the whites of her eyes flickering like a scared horse. Immediately, she pushed the rag into her apron and turned to face Warren fully, eyes focusing on a spot just beyond his head.

"I'm just telling a customer she has to leave. It's fifteen after closing." The rules he'd given her second week had spelled out not only the blatant 'wash your hands,' but the more subtle 'Mr. Whittaker likes the center table.' Apparently, he'd forgotten to say that Layla liked to stay late, way past the usual fifteen. The girl in question was beaming a little too brightly. He wanted to kick her out.

"This is Layla. I go to school with her." He turned slightly, looking straight at Darcy. "She stays as late as she wants."

Teeth gritted. "You didn't mention her before."

"I'm mentioning her now."

"Anything else you want to mention?" A little too much, Darcy, he thought, and smiled at her.

"Could you take inventory in the fridge before you go?" Mouth opened, definitely in protest, before snapping shut. Gritting her teeth again. Darcy nodded, brought the rag to hang around her neck.

"If you're finished, I'll take your dishes," she said to Layla, smiling more pleasantly. Her hair was tied back severely, making her face seem gaunt even in the low light. When Layla nodded, Darcy grabbed her plate, sent a scathing look at Warren, and disappeared into the back. He sat across from Layla and pretended he didn't know what that look was about.

"That's Darcy Bennett. She's a new worker here." A little snide now. "Just like you requested."

"You two fight often?"

"No, we don't-" he bit it off, unwilling to let her have any more than that. "You didn't fall in love with someone else, did you?"

She blushed heartily, stroking the pansies on the table that turned away from him. It was good to see her embarrassed, because that meant she'd stop harping on him. Not that he minded. Much. "No."

"Good." But before he could tell her about Winnie's lead, she attacked. The girl was getting too much spunk from Stronghold.

"So, why'd you pick a girl?"

His turn to grit his teeth. "I didn't pick her. She just sort of… showed up."

Layla grinned, looking out from under her lashes, toying with the pansies again. "She's kinda cute. Doesn't seem like she's afraid of you either."

He leaned forward, so much that she curled her shoulders in, mouth dropping from the smile. "I know that one of the symptoms of a happy relationship is wishing the same for everyone else, but, the day I need a dating service, I'll probably have killed myself a few hours before."

She let out a nervous laugh.

Job well done. Finished with menacing, Warren slapped the paper on the table, figuring the jump on her part was just a bonus. "This is Katrina Libowitz's phone number. Apparently, she was one of Dana Goldberg's best friends."

"She might know where Dana is," Layla said, eyes going bright. "This is a great lead!"

"Don't get too excited. It could be nothing."

"Or it could be something." Smiled too big now, teeth showing and a little delighted breathing. "This is so great. Magenta will be really excited."

She stopped, considering.

"Or, I guess, what passes for really excited with Magenta."

It started with a small grin on Warren's part, then a snort from Layla, and pretty soon erupted into laughter. And it hadn't even been that funny.

* * *

Maybe he should've brought something, but the meeting at Magenta's this time didn't seem much the playful events they usually had. Neither one of Magenta's parents was home, but her stepmother had baked something delicious smelling and left it on the table to be devoured. The table, though, was left to grow stale and the jokes cracked weren't as funny as they could be. Warren settled into an armchair, far enough away that no one was near him, but close enough that he could see the chart Ethan had made up. 

Dana's enlarged face smiled glossily from the chart. Down the right side were normal stats, like age and birthplace, while the left consisted of unusual activities that would make her a target.

"The only really unusual thing she did was dance. She'd been in ballet and modern dancing since she was little," Ethan said, pointing to the left list.

"Someone's attacking dancers?" From Zach, who perched on the edge of the couch, gleam forming in his eyes. "Maybe it's some crazy chick who has, like, a mangled foot and can never dance, and is so jealous that she kidnaps girls who have skill, then she'll use her Dance Ray to steal all their talent so she can finally perform on Broadway!"

Silence. Ethan pushed up his glasses.

"While that's a, uh, possibility, there isn't enough of a pattern to establish anything. I don't _want_ anyone else to get taken, but if they did, it'd be a big help."

"I've been searching online," Magenta said, dropping her laptop on the table so everyone could see. "For any cases that might look like this. Turns out, there's a whole database of only superhero/sidekick involved crimes. It took a while, but I managed to get in-"

"Wait. You hacked into a government database?" Zach again, who looked more than a little amazed.

"Yeah? So?"

"My girlfriend's a hacker! A good one!"

"We are _not_ dating," she growled; he cowered. "Anyway, there haven't been any crimes that look like Dana's, but there has been mention of a Lehnsherr organization that's been 'recruiting.' Dana never mentioned anything, but that doesn't mean she wasn't thinking about it."

"Then she might have just ran away?"

"No. She would've said something. She didn't go anywhere without telling someone."

"Maybe she did; maybe we just haven't found that someone," Will said.

"No!" Magenta jumped up, defensive. "She's missing because something happened. She wouldn't just leave. It's not like her. She's been kidnapped. That's the only explanation!" She stormed out.

A few uneasy shifts, and Zach sighed loudly.

"I have to go after her, don't I?"

Layla nodded. "It's a boyfriend thing."

He sighed louder, got up, began walking towards the back of the house. "If I don't make it, tell the kids I love them."

* * *

Nathan Jefferson liked to pretend that the wood forming wasn't him. Sometimes, shapes would magically appear and he'd accept them from the trees, as though they were offering gifts. He once gave his girlfriend a rose formed from the wood. She'd been so astounded, so moved, that tears had fell upon the wood thorns. A perfect gift. 

Worried, for his mom had said he was to be home at six and not a second later, Nathan practically ran down the last street to his house. Mom was cooking something southern, fried, and utterly good for dinner. He stopped at the corner, smoothing out his clothes. Then, putting a hand to the base of a willow tree, he drew out and shaped a sow and two piglets – his mother's favorite animal. Nathan turned it over in his hands. Perfect.

Pigs covered his house. They, in glass, wood, metal, paper, or anything else, were slowly taking over. He'd managed to keep them out of his room, but Nathan was certain that the second he left for college, his room would cease to be a haven for abandoned records from the 70s, and instead be another victory for the pigs. But it was okay – Mom deserved special things for all she did.

He stopped, gazed at the pigs. They weren't looking back, but he figured they were too intimidated. After all, he was pretty happy about eating their kind.

When he collapsed, the sow's head snapped off, rolling along the ground.

* * *

Walking home alone was probably one the worst ideas Warren had had in a while. Two superpowered kids had already been taken while walking home – if that wasn't a pattern… Really though, he couldn't be bothered to deter from his well-established and very shortcut riddled walk just because people couldn't take care of themselves. Another uneventful evening, this time at Zach's house, which had proved not as he'd thought. There'd been hardly any drugs in the house. Now, though, the meeting had gone even worse. With Nathan Jefferson as a victim, they had no connecting factors. Dana was a Jewish, homosexual poor girl, while Nathan was a black, straight rich boy. They didn't live near each other, Dana was a sidekick, and they didn't seem to have any friends in common. None of the others had even heard of Nathan before Will said that his parents had mentioned him. 

Nothing was adding up.

Two streets away from his home and lost in thought, Warren almost didn't notice the shadow not his own. He was meandering, moving from side to side, going through the lists of similarities and differences Ethan had brought up. Nothing made sense.

He stopped, finding a thought that stirred at the back of his mind, but wasn't forming. If he let it go, it would probably fester and pop out sooner or later, but he couldn't. Instead, he thought, trying to find out where it came from. He was overlooking something. That's when the shadow didn't cover its tracks.

It moved ahead, blending into his own shadow, but jilted too far to the left, creating a weird deformed head. Warren stared at the mixed shadows. Before he had time to react, the shadow was gone, darting away. When he turned around, there was nothing at all.

Had it been the mysterious being kidnapping superkids? Or was he being followed?

No good could come from either.

* * *

_ to be continued..._


	2. discoveries

_Part 2/3_

_"I am become Death; the destroyer of worlds." -- John Oppenheimer._

* * *

The black numbers blurred a little. He rubbed his eyes, shook out the cobwebs, picked up the pen again. All night and morning had been spent going over possible leads, possible connections. Then, he'd had to get up at seven to open, spending most of the day in the Saturday rush. The only shift he'd actually been scheduled for was closing, and Darcy couldn't do it by herself. While the money problem had disappeared with Tiffany, trust was fragile. He rubbed his eyes again, refusing to let them slow him down. 

His third time that night counting out the registers.

A loud clatter sounded from the kitchen, the sort of fridge-falling, oven-exploding noise a person could live their whole life without hearing. He had to muster up strength to care.

"Are you alright?" he called, separating the clipped twenties from the scattered. No one answered his call.

Shiver up his spine.

"Darcy?"

Nothing again.

Becoming more alert by the second, Warren stood from the table and cautiously moved toward the kitchen. Part of him wanted to just leave, pretend nothing had happened. After all, if something disastrous had befallen, he'd have to deal with it. Part of him felt a little guilty about being mean to Darcy that evening, hoping she wasn't seriously hurt. Then he'd feel guilty for an even longer time – guilt was not his forte.

Warren pushed open the swing door, holding it with his foot.

She was sprawled on the floor, mousy brown hair creating a halo, limbs akimbo in the broken way. Her eyes were partially open, showing only white. She'd been reaching for something high up, probably had used the bottom rail on the cabinets to prop her up the two more inches she needed. He'd always told her not to use them. The shelves that were supposed to be bolted to the wall had tipped over, sending large metal bowls, knives, and several sacks of prep food crashing down on her.

He felt a little sick.

"Darcy?" Then, he noticed it. Smeared across her forehead, some along her shirt, bright red blood. Strange, how it wasn't movie blood, how it looked almost neon in the florescent light.

His mother, collapsing, a thread of blood trickling down her mouth.

Shaking the image out of his head, Warren got to work clearing things away from Darcy. It seemed that nothing had fallen directly on her. The knives were to her far left, the bowls above her head, the sacks on her right. But the shelves weighed hefty, and they hadn't stayed attached to the wall. He reached down, getting a good grip on the shelves. He wasn't Stronghold, but there'd been strength somewhere in his line, and he'd gotten a smattering of it. If this had happened to him, the little bit of invulnerability he'd gotten as well would've prevented injury.

Warren strained, trying to bring up the shelves. They were heavy; too heavy. Why had they picked now to fall? Darcy was out cold, and he didn't know if she was breathing. Panic, a small stream of never-ending whispering voices, swelled from the base of his skull.

He took a step back. Looked at it. Assess the problem. The shelves were constructed in such a way that if you were to cut at two points, it would break off into thirds. More manageable thirds.

Risky, just popping out with his powers like that, but it was the easiest solution in the shortest amount of time. Besides, when was the last time he'd flared up? Entirely too long. Stepping back, Warren set off his hands, the warm rush of rightness settling into his bones at the flames leaping off his palms. There was too much goodness in turning on his powers, too much heady relief, like he'd grown so used to a headache, he had forgotten it was there. He crouched, concentrating on making the flame burn hotter, smaller, contained.

The first cut, the second, quick succession without too much hassle. It hadn't been that hard, and Warren felt smug threatening to come out. Instead of fighting it, he pushed the shelves off of Darcy (vowing to come back later and weld them to the wall). This time, he knelt to check if she was breathing, hand to her collarbone.

A rise of the chest, then a cough, sputtering. She jolted up, nearly knocking heads if he hadn't pulled back. A hand came up to her forehead, then she swayed, but he steadied her with one arm. He guessed she'd lost her breath when the shelves fell on her. Once Darcy was lacking in the wobble department, Warren let go, sitting back on his haunches.

She smiled up at him, hand on her forehead smearing the blood there. Slowly, Darcy moved to her feet, Warren holding an arm to stabilize as she shook so much. Then, running trembling hands through her hair in attempts to either calm it down, or nervous gestures, she turned to look directly at him. She hadn't done that since the night they played 'the game.'

"So, pyrokinetic, huh?"

For one moment, he imagined so clearly choking on water – spit-take, that he had to bring his hand nearly to his chin before it faded. There was not enough time to deny it, to take it back, to make her think that she'd been seeing things. But he opened his mouth anyway, prepared to say something to that effect.

"I mean, that's what Johnny Storm is in Fantastic Four, right? The whole moving fire thing." Darcy knuckled her eyes a little. "I saw you… burning through the metal. That was…"

He didn't, couldn't really, say anything.

"Are the shelves pretty much un-repairable?"

"Yeah."

"Well, they weren't good shelves anyway." She put a foot out, attempting to walk. Instead, it turned into a sort of wobble, followed by hesitantly flailing arms.

"Here," Warren said, putting an arm around her shoulders. Darcy looked at him again, eyes saying what mouth never could.

"Don't go getting any ideas now, Tolstoy. This is not going to lick me. I'm gonna live through this."

"Alright Scarlett. Just remember, I _don't _want you to faint."

She stopped, the side of her mouth pulling up. "You know it?"

"Watched it more times in Mandarin than any growing boy should have."

"Probably enjoyed it more than any growing boy should have too."

He laughed, a quick burst of noise that surprised him. Darcy was smiling, lips pulled back over her teeth, blood still curving a path down the side of her face as they limped into the dining area.

This felt as though they were… friends.

* * *

"I can't keep doing this. We have to tell someone." 

"Don't worry. The less they know, the better it is."

"But I can't hide this from them. It's too big. It's too much."

"Do you trust me or not?"

"I do! I just feel like, I dunno, I'm betraying them."

"You could see it that way, I guess."

"Hey – I'm sorry. I just… I feel weird. But this is the only way it will work. I don't know if they'd allow it any other way."

"We have to do what's in our best interest."

"We have to do what must be done."

"Ooh, you sound so protective."

"I'm just… adamant."

"You won't tell them, then?"

"Of course not. I can't. Not like this. They shouldn't see this. They'll understand, I hope."

"They're your friends."

Ethan sighed. "It doesn't take much to turn friends into enemies."

* * *

She'd taken steps to ensure that she wouldn't get hurt. She carried her cell phone, fully charged, loudest setting, everywhere. There was a can of pepper spray in her right front pocket, and she kept the feeling of a shift at the forefront of her mind constantly, always imagining. It was exhausting. 

Taking care to look all around her, especially in the shadows, Magenta crossed the street. Zach had asked if she wanted him to walk her home, or to have his mom just fly her, but she declined. She wasn't some invalid. She could very well walk home by herself. Besides, they hadn't figured out the connecting factor. And it was not like she'd be chosen. What was so special about her? Well, other than what Zach said.

Zach again. He seemed to be popping up in her brain more often than she wanted. She'd been fine without a boyfriend. She had been fine being snarky little Maj who cared for no one but herself, who told jokes and got laughs, but rarely did anything else. Then came Zach, bumbling his way into her life. Geez, he was annoying. Cute, but annoying. She liked him a lot more than she should. Hadn't her parents' marriage taught her anything?

Getting involved was dangerous. Getting involved got you hurt. She'd been hurt enough.

Shaking the thoughts out of her head, because, really, what help would they be right now, Magenta scanned the area again, clenching the pepper spray in her hand. She turned the corner, but it didn't seem right. That house three doors down should've had a fence in the front, shouldn't it?

She went closer, body tensing. Actually, that house was familiar. The area was very familiar. It was the path she usually took to Will's house. How the heck…?

In hindsight, she should've seen the blow coming. But, you know what they say about hindsight and perfect vision.

* * *

"You're late." 

Warren raised an eyebrow to this, Stronghold just a bit too familiar and angry for his liking.

"There's a designated time now?" he said, not so much expecting an answer as putting off the volatile hero so he could slip inside. Stronghold moved to block. Warren didn't step back, wouldn't, and couldn't help the bemused expression over his face.

"This is serious."

"Do you really want to start this, Stronghold?" He flexed his arms, feeling the tingle shoot through his veins. Barron Battle wasn't called that for fun, and he had almost a sixth sense, almost a way of feeling the fight before. Stronghold was incensed, maybe could take him, maybe not. But it'd be real stakes, not playing. Not playing.

Stronghold, though, was not a fighter. He was a justice upholder and a righteous defender. He wasn't a fighter. For one strange perfect moment, Warren knew that if their positions had been reversed, Stronghold wouldn't have made it. The thought calmed him.

"Not worth it." Warren made to side-step him again, and Stronghold held firm again. This time, he leaned down, using his height. "How important is it for us to get into this?"

Finally, _finally_, sense flickered back into those brown eyes. The healthy film of anger dissolved into embarrassment, remorse, sadness, and fatigue. Things were not well at Camp Heroes.

"Sorry. It's just – Magenta's gone missing. We think she's been taken too."

For all that he'd tried to stay out of this little group, dread and sorrow took over his limbs, his pores. Warren sat down a little too hard on the stairs. He'd tried to not get involved, he'd tried to pretend that they were all a nuisance, he'd tried so hard to get rid of them all, but… One of their own was missing. His own. And since none of the other kids had shown up, and Dana had been kidnapped weeks ago, things were not looking up.

"What are we going to do?"

Stronghold swung his arms around uselessly, shrugging his shoulders, glancing around like there'd be an answer written on his walls. "I don't know! We've been brainstorming, but nothing's come up. We can connect Magenta to Dana, but neither to Nathan. Nothing makes sense."

"Well, we're obviously not looking hard enough." So, they got up, and tried to look again. When after seven hours, they didn't find anything still, everyone left the Stronghold house, more dejected than they'd been in weeks.

Tired, Warren didn't even notice the shadow trailing him.

* * *

His first Saturday off in five months. He'd counted them, looking at the weekends that dwindled into nothingness. Five months ago, Winnie had still been an active part of his life. Five months ago, he would go out with Stronghold's group and stand off to the side, menacing. Five months ago, his biggest problem was passing Mad Science. 

Funny how things change.

Warren circled Saturday on his calendar Friday night, admiring the black ring amidst a graveyard of xs. Only two rings marked this month, a paltry quantity compared to five months ago. Saturdays always brought that warm feeling of nostalgia: cereal, cartoons, and waking up at noon. It brought a half-smile to his face right there.

A knock on his door. Shrugging into the shirt he'd discarded for sleep, Warren pulled open the door to his room slightly, a sliver of light.

Mr. Chiang. His face wasn't a 'Good-night, enjoy the fourteen hours of sleep you'll be getting on your first Saturday off in five months.' Instead, it was the hesitant hopeful 'I know I promised something to you, and this isn't really breaking it, but please be willing to do this for me.' He hated that look.

For revenge, using the worst most slang Mandarin dialect he could think of, Warren said, "What's up?"

The grimace was little reward.

"You have tomorrow off."

Games were not appreciated. "What do you want me to do?"

Mr. Chiang hid a smile. He'd certainly raised the boy right. Even if he did hate delivering bad news (surely Meilan practiced rock, paper, scissors, while he was out), at least it was to a kid who took it well.

"We need to use the attic to store what's in the garage, but it's full of junk. Separate it into trash, charity, and keep. Okay?"

Biting back a groan, Warren couldn't contain a sigh. "Okay."

Inspiration struck. "Make that girl help you. Darcy. Give her a few hours' pay for it."

Warren nodded, Mr. Chiang left, and then Warren growled and set his calendar on fire. So much for Saturdays.

·······

"You know, what if I didn't want to do this today?"

"I'm doing it; you're doing it." Darcy huffed, folding her arms and stomping around the attic. They'd been at it since eight that morning, and it was nearly finished. The westernmost wall had several boxes stacked against it and that, along with a few chairs, was the last of an attic filled with mess. The front yard was a museum of monstrosities and oddities. They'd found old newspapers, several boxes of toys Warren denied were his, and an old loom.

Meilan had interrupted about noon, bringing them Moo Goo Gai Pan and mooncakes (she'd claimed that she was preparing for the festival in September), but they had little reprieve during the day. It'd been quiet, though not as tense as he would've thought.

"I was afraid," Darcy said, bending over and opening a box. He didn't say anything, but she elaborated anyway. "That's why I came here. I was afraid of my father."

"Hard," he remarked, finally, wiping the sweat off his forehead. She nodded, picking through what looked like leaflets from the sixties.

"For the best. I couldn't stay. My mom…" She trailed off, shook her head. "Anyway. When did you first learn about your powers?"

He pulled a box next to her, opened it, found a bunch of dusty yarn. "I was seven years old. Meilan set out clothes for me to wear to school and I didn't want to. So, I set them on fire." She laughed. They both picked up their respective boxes and headed outside. "What do you want to do with your life?"

"Talk about hard questions!" Darcy sat in one of the chair they'd brought down from the attic, rocking back and forth. "Hmm. I think I'd like to work in archaeology. I know they hardly dig up stuff anymore, but I can write a mean proposal, and I think I could get a grant to dig somewhere. I love history. Maybe I'll work in the British Museum or something."

In all her introspection, Darcy lost her footing going down the stairs and nearly dropped the box of kitchen utensils on herself. Warren caught them, leaning against her so that they were a little too close in the cramped staircase. From there, he could see that she had grey flecks in her eyes, so light they almost looked silver. She leaned closer, licking her lips.

"So Tolstoy, what do you look for in a girl?" Several things washed over him: anger, disgust, annoyance, and a little embarrassment. But Darcy just laughed and pushed him back. "I'm just kidding Tolstoy. You ever think of me like that and we'll have words."

He glanced back at her.

"Or, you know, you'll just kick my ass. Hey, that works too."

"Hmm. I like them tall, funny," Warren started, ticking things off his fingers. Darcy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and blonde and not named after Jane Austen characters."

"Oh haha. You're so hilarious." She pulled another box to her, and began to read the papers she found inside. While it seemed as though she'd say more, Darcy's face turned serious as she kept reading. He paid little heed, going through his own box of track medals. Apparently Meilan had been quite the runner. Finally, he noticed she wasn't participating in the banter anymore.

"What?"

Oblivious. Absorbed in whatever she was reading. Warren came over, snatched it out of her hands. Blood turned cold.

_My dearest Louisa,_

_I have only one regret and that is we are parted. Had you not sided with my enemies, I would never have left you. But as things are, I can't continue. Surely, you can understand that to establish myself as a real villain, I must sever any sympathies I may have towards the hero world. I must be taken seriously. A lover, especially amongst the Hero Coalition, would undermine all that I've done. Sorrow wreaks my heart at the thought of leaving you. Should you ever decide you wish to live your last days with me, I will always leave my door open. I doubt your convictions would ever let you, and that is why my love grows so strong. Need requires my ending at present, but should you wish, we could further our correspondence. I would enjoy it immensely._

_Forever my love,_

_Barron_

"He sounds a little overdramatic, but this whole box's fully of them! I wonder who they were, Louisa and Barron. Sounds like Shakespeare." She reached over to grab another letter. However, her gaze wandered instead to Warren. "What's wrong?"

"They're my parents."

"What?" Her mouth dropped; she yanked the envelope out of his hand and looked at the front. Louisa Peace. "Whoa. That's… unreal."

He didn't say anything, staring at the paper in his hands. Stillness, though, had left him, and the air around his arms began to shiver with heat. She sat back automatically, pulling the box closer to her so it didn't catch on fire, should that explode from his hands.

Darcy spoke, quietly, almost to herself. "What happened to them?"

And even though it wasn't his turn, Warren replied. "He killed her. My father killed my mother."

·······

Certain Darcy had left, Warren hauled the box containing his mother's letters up to his room. Then, he went to his closet, got to his knees, searching near the back, under dirty clothes and trash and junk, he found the other box. He'd been the next of kin for Barron Battle, and all his father's belongings had been sent to him. That was how he got the suit. All along he'd known there was something more in that box. But, he couldn't quite bring himself to dig through all the mess, all the images.

At least Darcy was good for one thing.

Warren opened both boxes, lifted up his father's clothes without even taking a second to breathe them in, and shifted aside a few more items to get to the letters bundled at the bottom. Those would be written by his mother. He'd been with the Chiangs eleven years. Mrs. Chiang was Meilan, Mr. Chiang was still Mr. Chiang, on occasion Ken, but he'd never called them mom or dad. He'd been five, and he'd still known those weren't his real parents.

Lifting out the bundles of letters, Warren set them next to each other.

"Hello Mom. Hello Dad." He said nothing else, as he began to arrange them chronologically. Maybe, he'd even read them. Someday.

* * *

Frankly, solving the mystery with the Scooby Gang was just not on the forefront of his mind. Warren was sorry Magenta was kidnapped, yes; he was pissed someone had messed with his forming family. However, real family was lurking in the back of his skull, connections he'd known to be severed were trying frenetically to reattach themselves. For all his supposed lack of caring, Warren wasn't stupid enough to lie to himself and pretend he didn't want a family. He'd wanted to know. He'd always wanted to know. Maybe it would help him find out why Barron did it. Why Barron had killed his 'love.' Usually, Warren just played the role of apathetic, cold-hearted bastard. 

Today was not that case.

So, he could hardly be to blame when he came into the Stronghold home a little more irate than usual.

"Who's missing this time?"

Layla, the sting haunting her eyes, frowned a little. "No one's missing now. We didn't ask Zach to come because he's a little emotional right now-"

When Warren scoffed, she flinched. "and Ethan said he was too busy with some Honors homework. I just wanted to see if you'd figured out anything new."

Too much hope in her eyes and didn't she know he couldn't save them?

"There were four of you working on this, and _I'm_ the one who's supposed to come up with something?"

Her eyes flickered again. Layla was the key. It was easy with Stronghold, who'd always been held at a distance. Too much history for them to be good friends so fast, though they were working on it. But Layla, Layla had taken the first step, had initiated contact, had torn a hole in his wall and poked her head through. If he were going to hurt someone, it was through Layla. He didn't want to, not really. But he had to find out; he had to know what happened. So, in this situation, what else could he do? What else?

"We've all been working hard Warren. I was just wondering-"

"If your gamble pulled through? If making friends with the enemy would help you out?" She was already protesting, fire lighting in her eyes, fighting. "Congratulations."

He tossed a piece of paper that she caught, opened. Eyes narrowed, confusion dotted her face. "What is this?"

"Katrina Libowitz. She's the only connection between the three people. I found her address. I'm going there Wednesday to ask her questions." He turned, started leaving, the itching in his palms anticipation of the letters and not the usual fight. The good upbringing welled in his mind, reminding him that he needed to establish friendships, not drive people away. But he'd never gotten anything from a friendship he couldn't live without. Knowing who his parents were, how they lived, how they died – that might be worth more than anything.

"Warren – what's wrong with you?" A little disbelief, a little distance, and he hoped she managed to nurture that, make it grow like everything else she touched.

Smiling, the cold cruel one that haunted his dreams, cocked his head and said, "Maybe you're finally seeing the real me."

He was nearly gone when she rushed forward. Her hand came around his wrist, eyes pleading, and his powers flared, burned her, before he could control it. She cradled her reddened fingers. If he'd wanted to look that deep, he would've found a kernel of fear kindling in her eyes.

"I don't believe that."

His eyes flickered to where Stronghold was walking with purpose, and he dropped his smile. "Then you're only fooling yourself."

When he finally left, Warren had to fight everything in him not to go back. It was for the best. At least, that was what he used to try to convince himself.

A shadow followed him, but Warren almost wanted it to overtake.

* * *

The next night, having convinced Mr. Chiang that cleaning out the attic was work enough, Warren had off. He had already arranged the letters, sorted through them, had an order of what to read. Now that everything was done, he wasn't certain how to begin. How did one prepare to divulge the intimate secrets of one's parents? 

He'd found a good start, though. His mother had been a bit of a writer, making several non-letters to people. One was addressed to a clerk at the grocery store, censoring him for racist remarks. Another had been to her junior high chem teacher, berating her for coming down so hard on non-science inclined students. Most of them were to herself. A diary, of sorts. There were a few that dealt with observations she made about her powers, ones he kept to study, including the use of heat to fly. Many, too many, were about Barron. His parents had started dating the second day of freshman year. Even when Barron supposedly broke off their relationship, they saw each other every day. Mostly without knowledge from either one's affiliated group. They were scared of being caught. The ones that really caught him though, were those a few months before his birth and those following. Barron didn't know he had a son until Warren was nearly three years old.

He wasn't sure when people started forming memories, but he had none of his father.

After that, Louisa had them meeting in secret, a little thrilling for them, being risk-takers and all, and it wasn't until Barron went officially 'evil' when Warren was almost four that she cut him off. But that was only at the insistence of the Hero Coalition. Even then, she would meet up with Barron, swearing that they would live happily together once she figured out a way for them to disappear. Her last letter was the most confusing of all.

_Barron,_

_I've done it, at last. I told you my parents had a home down in Aruba. Turns out, they never really owned it. Some of their friends just up and left, saying that they wanted it for property value, but didn't want anything else. My father told me we could stay there. It's out of the country, so the HC won't have jurisdiction. I hope Steve doesn't get over-excited and contact the WHAE. No, I know he won't. I know it's harder for you to get out of EVA, but we'll get through this. Don't do anything dumb or showy before next week, okay Barron? One week, and we'll be clear. One week._

_Complete love,_

_Louisa_

Where did that go? It didn't sound like they were having problems or intended to part ways. It didn't sound like Barron was ready for some major battle where he'd kill Louisa. It didn't make any sense.

"Warren?" He tensed up, glancing at all the letters littered around his room. Opening the door a crack, he did his best to prevent Mr. Chiang from seeing the state of his room.

"Yeah?"

"That girl-" Mr. Chiang-speak for Darcy "is closing tonight by herself. She'll count out the registers, but go help her. It's her first close."

Protestations threatened to leak from his mouth, but Warren drew them back in, nodding. "Sure."

Even Mr. Chiang looked disappointed with the quick acquiescence.

"But, ah, I won't like it. I might even call her a name."

"Don't be mean to her!" Mr. Chiang said, satisfied, leaving.

Warren got to the restaurant in what had to be ten minutes longer than it should have. If there were things he'd want to be doing, helping Darcy was the least of them. A wave of grudging respect washed over him as he unlocked the front door – Darcy had remembered to lock it, something he was notorious for forgetting. He went straight to the kitchens, seeing that they'd already been cleaned. It would make sense for her to do what she knew first, probably had one of the busboys help her, then sit down to count out the registers. When he came out onto the main floor, sure enough, Darcy was there, money sprawled out in front of her. A small amount, though; she probably had trouble ringing up things on the register.

"Stumped?"

She jumped, sending a nice thrill of pleasure. Oh, to scare the prey. "Oh _you_. Mr. Chiang didn't say you'd come by. What are you doing here Tolstoy?"

"Making sure you don't pilfer a couple of grand." She rolled her eyes.

"I can take care of myself." And she could, but the retort lacked the sting, and it wasn't like her. Warren came a bit closer, cocked out a hip to stay a while.

"Looks like you undercharged the customers."

"This isn't the registers. I already did those. This is tips." She said the last a little down with a little sigh.

"Tips?" Eyebrows up. "You didn't give the waitresses their tips?" Did she get hit in the head again and lose her common sense?

"No. The waitresses took their tips. This is," hesitance "from the tip jar on the counter."

They kept a tip jar. It was only there for hopes in gaining more money, obviously. The waitresses were tipped, but the person who rang up the orders, including carry-outs, rarely got tipped. There just wasn't enough interaction to get in the customer's graces. Actually, the jar was usually used as a reservoir of change patrons didn't want. Money did not come from the tip jar. This much, easily three hundred dollars, was unheard of. No. It was impossible.

"No one makes this off the tip jar."

"I know." Small, whispered, shoulders hunched. She'd done something wrong.

"No one makes this."

"Ask me a question," she said, eyes shining with desperation.

"What?"

"It's my turn. Ask me a question; ask me the right question."

Too eager, and he leaned back. He'd gotten used to Darcy over the summer, but she was still a stranger. This was clearly a sign of some previously hidden mental disorder. "Where did you get all this money?"

Shook her head, pressed her thin lips together. "Not the right one. Please, just think, just ask the right question."

There was a fairytale, he thought, maybe a fable or a folktale or something equally quaint and moral, if fictional. There was a fairytale he could barely remember where a girl was under a curse, but couldn't tell anyone what it was. So, she had to drop hints, had to act in certain ways, in order to get people to guess the curse. Was she mute in that story? He didn't remember that, but this reminded him, and he never really liked it all the much. Besides, games were only fun when he knew he could win.

"You need to stop that. Why do you have all this money? Why did the customers put it in the jar?"

"There. That's it. Because I made them." She got up, coming over to where he was. "I've been trying so hard to hide it, but I made them do it tonight. You don't understand. I was just so happy to be trusted again. I was so happy to just be normal again. I thought that I could contain it. I thought I could control it. But I got to comfortable tonight. That's why it happened."

Low, dangerous, the fire already sparking in his voice. "What did you do?"

"I have powers."

A smile broke out over his face. It was not a happy or pleasant smile. In fact, it made Darcy draw inward more, taking a step back before she lifted her chin and took the step forward again.

"Warren-"

"Whatever you heard about my father is wrong. I won't help you."

"Your father? What? I don't care, listen – I didn't come to talk about your father. I came to see you." The sheer disbelief must've shone on his face, because she sighed, exasperated. "Look, you want me to show you? Fine. Here."

It didn't take more than an instant. It was a little quicker than Magenta changing into a gerbil, but creepier, in a way. Where Darcy had taken her hair down, the mousy bushy mass of it matted to her face by sweat, this hair grew black. Well, it was black, super-jet black like night, with bursts of silver. Actual stars in her hair that gleamed with a metallic sheen, so you didn't mistake them for gray. Her hair turned from bushy to a soft curl, bouncing around her face just so, wisps trailing over her eyes seductively. He'd always liked her eyes, mostly because they were leaf green and made him think of his friendship with Layla, but now they were a vibrant throbbing green, and the specks of gray he'd suspected burst into full-blown silver. Her eyes were heavily fringed with long curled eyelashes. The character-filled, if somewhat hooked, nose turned into a straight thin thing that filled out her heart-shaped face (had it been that before?) better. Her cheekbones weren't dangerously sharp, but instead high and prominent, making her eyes seem almond-shaped and exotic. Her thin lips filled out, the bottom moreso, so she was sullen, like only you would ever be able to fulfill what she wasn't getting. He tried to ignore her body, which suddenly grew into its lankiness, a tall shapely figure that hadn't even looked like a girl's in the restaurant's uniform. In short, she was gorgeous, a man's dream.

Warren kept that to himself. "Your power is to look pretty?"

"This isn't looking pretty," Darcy said, with a voice that was hers, only with the accent more prominent, the Southern coming through that he hadn't really noticed. It was just a touch more sultry, a touch enough. "This is me. This is what I look like. This over-made, fashionista, damn Gap model thing! The other look is what I've managed to change myself into when I concentrate. This is what I look like when I sleep or I'm not actively keeping it up. For the most part, I can maintain that other look but…" She sighed. "Sometimes I get tired."

"But you were unconscious…" Why did that feel like his priorities weren't straight?

"No, I wasn't. The shelves fell on me, yes, but I wondered if you'd show your powers, so I pretended that I was unconscious. I…" Sighed again, pushed a long-fingered delicately shaped hand through her wave of hair. "I don't know what I'm doing."

He should've been angry. There were several parts of his brain telling him that anger was the appropriate emotion. Instead, he felt mostly confused, a bit hurt, and an unhealthily portion of amused. "It's not a very frightening power."

"It is. I – well – I'd heard about you. Your mother, first. Firefly was one of the best pyros in the world, and if anyone knew how to control their powers, she did." Darcy sat down, using her hands to explain. He wanted her to switch back; she was distracting like this. "There's research on people with powers, you know. Pyros, at least the ones who generate their own fire, have a little built-in shield. They have to have one that reacts as a reflex so they don't burn up themselves. It gets stronger when you actively use your power, but it's on all the time. That's why pyros are hard to kill. They have an automatic resistance to powers. I figured that if I got close to a pyro, they'd be able to resist. And if they were active, they would resist even more. And maybe, I could be normal. Maybe I could…"

"This being pretty thing, I'm not really seeing the danger."

Darcy rubbed her eyes, sighing again. She was gonna pass out, breathing heavily like that. "This isn't my power. It's part of it. It's… it's desire. That's my power. But it's not like 'oh I want a cookie,' it's powerful and it makes people do things they would never do otherwise. It makes people insane."

"… really."

"You don't have to believe me," she said, rubbed her face again. "But I can't use it against you. It… it never goes away. Look, when I'm around you, I don't have to be on constant guard. You're naturally resistant enough that I just keep up the glamour and everything's fine. I can be myself."

Too close, too far in. "You get that from a fortune cookie?"

"Greeting card, actually." Half-smile, hair bleeding back into brown. "I'm sorry. You know, that I'm a big liar and I don't deserve to be trusted and pretty much you should just kick me out on the street and give me a beat-up cardboard box to live in. I'm sorry."

He believed her. Not because of what she'd said, or that she obviously had powers (even if they were just to look pretty). He'd read that his mother participated in research, that she had learned about the shield pyros projected. Somewhere along the way, he had started to trust Darcy. Damnit. When did that happen? He'd have to figure it out, so he could stop it from happening again.

So. This was it. Here he was, trusting some lying, shape-shifting, pretty but creepy girl who he'd know less than the time he had some people who had been very nice and accepting to him that he'd just torn down. Sounded like a perfect high school situation. Besides, he needed the help at the restaurant. And damn if he would train another person.

"We don't get that many cardboard boxes. You should come by tomorrow, break down the ones we do have."

Her face lit up before it closed down, and he had the sinking feeling that she wasn't done sharing. Great. "Thank you. And keep the money, put it into the restaurant."

He nodded, bending over to collect it while she left.

"My real name is Helena Troy, by the way." He stared at her.

"I'm not calling you that."

Shrugged. "Yeah, didn't think so."

* * *

He was halfway down the street leading to Katrina Libowitz's house when he noticed the group on the other side. If maybe their groups started to merge, that had little to do with him. They'd been walking for some time when Layla broke the rules and spoke to him. 

"So, do you know anything about her, other than that she's connected to the missing people?"

"Nope."

"Do you think she has powers?"

"She kidnapped kids with them, so yeah."

Silence again.

When they made it to the house, which loomed ominously and had a huge freaky-looking garden between the gate and actual house, no one moved forward to step into it. In fact, they stood there, staring at the slightly open gate, watching it sway just a little in the breeze.

"You call yourselves heroes," Warren muttered, pushing open the gate and striding through. A trail behind him, and they all waited anxiously when he knocked. Nothing. He knocked again, harder, and the door swung open.

"Maybe we shouldn't-"

"Hello?" Warren called, looking in, pushing through, stepping inside. He wandered through, calling greetings, glancing back to find the rest of them had come inside as well. When he came upon the parlor, there was someone sitting in a high-backed chair, one arm draped over the side. "Hello?"

"A bit impolite, don't you think, to come in my house uninvited." A whispering voice, nothing special, definitely a woman. She didn't sound like she should be friends with the rest of them.

"Are you Katrina Libowitz?" The swinging arm tensed, straightened.

"Don't call me that!" And suddenly, everything shifted.

They were no longer in a parlor with floor-to-ceiling bookcases or mirror-shined hardwood floors, but instead outside, in the garden, dead flowers crackling beneath their feet. Tingling shot up Warren's arms, fighting for control, a heady mix of fear and anger, weakness and strength.

"What the…"

"We're not really here," Layla whispered, pointing to a dark copse of trees. "Look. You can see the outline of books and their shelves in the foliage."

"This is definitely not right, man," Zach whispered.

Far left to them, the rose bushes shimmered, and out stepped a girl. She was tall, too tall, long awkward limbs, a gait unfolding from her like a jerky marionette. Her hair was pulled severely back from her rounded face, some sort of concealing make up, made of jagged red stars and black stripes, masking most of her features. Her costume was the same red stars and black stripes, a combination wetsuit and ballroom gown. Warren did not approve.

"So, you've come to see the great Katastrophe."

"'The great?' Are we supposed to know her? Because, uh, I didn't get that memo," Zach whispered.

Will had been paying even less attention. "Did she just say her name was Apostrophe?"

"Uhm, we've never heard of you." From Layla, who came forward to get a closer look.

"What? You haven't? But, I paid my dues, I was supposed to be – oh never mind. You've come into my lair. You think you can defeat me?"

"Oh man, oh man, we have to fight her? I didn't even bring my utility belt!"

"We don't want to fight. We just wanted to know if you if you knew anything about the missing kids."

"Of course. I kidnapped them."

"You-!"

"How did you do that?" Layla shot him a sharp look, but Warren ignored. "How did you make the parlor the garden?"

Katastrophe grinned, arms coming up to fold and she leaned back a little. "You noticed that, huh? That's my power. I'm a Re-Alter."

"A what?"

She ignored Will. "You look familiar. Have I seen you before?"

"What's a Re-Alter?"

But Katastrophe wasn't listening to anyone. She came closer, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "I've seen you somewhere… oh my God. You're Barron's son."

Even if she hadn't been able to change their surroundings, Warren was certain the world would still have tilted. "You knew my father?"

"Are you kidding? Barron's the best Re-Alter out there. He could make up landscapes; he could actually transport people – everyone wishes they could have his abilities. You didn't… I mean… you didn't… you didn't get his powers, did you?"

"No. I take after my mother."

"Warren!" Will whispered, lost somewhere between bewildered and furious. "You're not actually chit-chatting with the villain, are you?"

"Oh Firefly! Great girl. Too bad about what happened."

Too bad? _Too bad?_ "You mean too bad that he killed her?" Anger, so hot and thick, coursed through his body, the heat flickering around his arms.

Everyone stopped. Layla gasped, Will choked on his whisper, and Zach started glowing. Even the wind, whistling through the braches of the large morose willow trees lessened to a thin breath. Warren clenched his fists. Katastrophe's eyes widened.

Then, she laughed.

"Barron? Kill her? Barron couldn't kill anyone! He had EVA pissed because all he would do was challenge heroes to battles then let them leave! He saved puppies and kittens and adopted skunks and made drawings of clouds and stuff." Then, solemn took over her face. "Did they tell you that he killed her? Is that what they said? Is that how they explained the four life sentences? Man, the HC has really gone downhill."

"He didn't… he didn't kill her?" No hope, no he burnt that out, but somewhere, he could feel the pain lessening and he couldn't trust the word of someone who kidnapped kids, could he?

"If you want answers, you should talk to your father. He's the only one who really knows what happened."

She seemed to fall back into focus, to notice that all of them were standing around, staring at her. Then, Katastrophe raised her arms, twirled a bit. "See ya!" then smashed a smoke bomb so that she could disappear.

No one moved.

Then – "Warren-" from Layla.

He left, and tried to pretend he wasn't fleeing.

* * *

Before he'd had time to process, before he'd gotten even out of the neighborhood, Warren slammed into the dark shadow that had been following him, haunting him. He was almost surprised it was a person. 

"Who are you?" voice dangerously low, actual fire flicking out of his fingers. "Why are you following me? What do you want?"

The person hefted himself from the ground, shaking off. Then, he tossed back his hair so Warren could see his face.

Bruno Chiauci. The man he'd almost hired to help out at the Lantern. He still had the too-long dark brown hair falling into his face, the lanky under-fed quality to his body, the sharp and rodent-like picture of his features. For a moment, Warren was so stunned, he just gaped.

"Hello Warren."

"Who _are_ you?" The fire, which had gone out at his bafflement, flared again, and it licked up to his wrists.

"Bruno Chiauci. I used to be known as Fixer. A weak techopath, but efficient. Your dad found me good enough."

Warren scoffed. "Been meeting a lot of friends of my father."

"Yeah? Strange. I used to be his sidekick. We were best friends. We are. We are best friends."

"What do you want?" and the fire spread to his elbows, growing because of the wind, growing.

"I was supposed to look out for you. Barron hears about the kids getting taken, he gets upset, asks his friend to help him out. You know, you don't get out enough."

Swallowed. "You have contact with my father?"

"Sure. He's my hero, ain't he? That's how it works. You don't separate heroes and their sidekicks. I'd find it a little creepy if I wasn't there myself. I still can't figure out where they keep him, but I will. One day. Then I'll break him out. Well, shouldn't've told you that one."

"Katastrophe said-"

"Kat's still around?" Chiauci smiled, ran a hand through his lank hair. "Wow. Nice girl, terrible Re-Alter. You know she can't even make solid illusions? She the one behind this then? That's really bold. But, it's a stupid plan, so, makes sense."

"She said that Barron didn't kill my mother." Chiauci's eyes widened almost comically.

"Of course he didn't. Barron had a hard time eating meat. Guy just liked to fight. It was in his blood, you know. You grandmother was a fighter, invulnerable, super-strength, super-speed, sixth sense about danger. She was a tough bird. It was your grandpa who had the Re-Alter blood. Surprised you didn't get it, usually follows in the line it's made. That's why Barron likes the fighting. S'right there. He was a boxer, you know, back in school."

"I only knew he was in Oklahoma."

"Oh yeah. I remember that." Chiauci chuckled, remembering. "He only wanted that part because Louisa was Laurey."

If he asked, then he might find the answers. So, Warren sucked in a breath. "Can I contact him?"

"Who? Barron? Naw, kid. His mail gets read and processed. He says all my letters come half blacked out. They wouldn't let anything from you go through. Or not anything you wanna know."

"What happened? Why is he in there for four life sentences? What happened to my mother?" And the flames darted up to his shoulders, not too intense, but there, a shield almost.

"Sorry kid. I don't know the answers to those questions. They put him in for killing Louisa, but everyone in EVA knew that was a lie. But who's gonna believe a buncha villains?"

"I have to talk to him."

"The only way that's gonna happen is if you get someone to tell you where they're keeping him. If you get that, and go there, those damn heroes will believe you've been sent there. They're gullible like that."

"Then I will," Warren said, more to himself. "I'll get there."

Chiauci put a hand forward, like he was going to clasp Warren 'round the shoulder, but he drew back before contact. This wasn't some friendly reunion. Chiauci had information, important information, and Warren was better off for having it.

"Kid-"

"Stop following me."

"Don't need to. Not if Kat's behind this."

Warren turned, left, never glanced behind him. But Chiauci watched him leave, nostalgia burning in his eyes and sadness searing his heart. Poor kid.

* * *

_to be concluded..._


	3. betrayals

_Part 3/3_

_Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. _- Shakespeare

* * *

There wasn't an ocean near Maxville. That fact served to disappoint Arman Sabiri every day he woke up. He'd jump out of bed, rush to his window, and look out. Instead of seeing those waves, smelling the salt, hearing the crash, there'd only be his dog, bouncing around the back yard. He felt bad for the dog. It was a perfectly good dog. It wasn't the dog's fault that Arman hated dogs. Dogs had a tendency to bite things like fish. At least the dog wasn't a cat. Arman shuddered at the thought. 

Arman walked to the pool from his house every day. His mother hadn't thought building a pool in the backyard was financially sound, and a little part of Arman resented her for that. So, he walked, every day, to the pool. The pool was huge, Olympic-sized, and there were hardly any people in it this late at night. He'd smear salt all over his body and jump in. The chlorine stung a little, but that price was easily paid. After all, he couldn't very well swim in his bathtub at home. Mom just wasn't accommodating at all.

He pulled at the collar to his shirt. It was a normal thing for him, since lungs never really seemed to be that efficient. Things were always going around his neck, choking him, and he always was tempted to break out the gills. At least those made sense.

Almost, he could almost feel the water sluicing around him, inviting him in. The water was like a mother, caressing, welcoming, inviting.

Arman was moving around, twirling in a circle, like he was part of the water already, already floating along, breathing through gills.

Too bad that the blow came down and rendered him into dreamless unconsciousness.

* * *

His room was a disaster. Warren was a neat person. He wasn't obsessive, everything didn't have a specific place, but mostly, everything was neat. That he had hardly any personal belongings probably contributed to this. But, right then, his floor had become the largest shelf in his room. 

There. He found it. The contact list they'd gotten at the beginning of the school year. Surely someone at Sky High would be privy to where the villain prison was. Looking around his room, Warren was pretty sure that the phone was lost as well. Damn.

"This is not an attractive side to you, Tolstoy. The whole bad-boy, destructive, crazy thing went out with Ted Bundy, you know, after they _put him to death_."

He glanced up, seeing Darcy back in her regular form, her _glamour_, as she called it, hip cocked and looking at him with an eyebrow raised. "What are you doing here?"

"Would you buy that I was just passing through the neighborhood?" He just looked at her. "Fine. I came by to tell Mr. Chiang that I can't work next Saturday."

"You have something to do? Like what?"

"Hey, that's a girl's prerogative. What are you doing anyway? Destroying everything?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, alright, this looks a lot like nothing." She noticed the paper in his hands, brows up again. "Something important?"

"What are you doing Saturday?" Eyes narrowed, but she sighed and entered, flopping on his bed. Her hair, finger-combed and frizzy, splayed out on the papers he'd tossed there.

"I called my mother. She answered this time, and I am going to meet her Saturday. We're going to talk about what happened, about if I can go back."

"Where are you staying anyway?"

"Nuh-uh. My turn. What are you doing in here, besides recreating a hurricane?" He sat down next to her, showing her the paper.

"I'm pretty sure one of the people on this paper can tell me where my father is."

She sat up, stared hard at him when he laid down. "Serious? That's big."

"Yeah, but how do I ask? 'This is Warren Peace. My father is a convicted killer. How can I infiltrate the villain prison to meet up with him?' I'm sure they'd go for that."

Darcy leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Then, hands buried in her hair, she muttered something. Used to this, Warren said nothing. She did it again.

"Give me the list."

"Why?"

"Give it to me." He did, more out of curiosity than complying with her demands. "Who's the most important person on this list?"

"Principal Powers, I guess." She checked it over, nodded.

"Alright. Diana Powers, got it. Do you have the phone?" He did, actually, having been unfortunate enough to lay on it. He handed it over, but kept a grip and they fought a moment for control.

"What are you going to do?" Her eyes were blank, so serious that he'd never seen it before.

"This is important to you, right? Well, I'm going to get that information. I'm going into the bathroom. Don't listen in; don't let anyone go in there or get close enough to hear me. Understand?"

"You're being ridiculous." Her jaw clenched, released.

"Just, please, do this, okay?"

He nodded, and she left. When he followed her, she gave him an odd look before disappearing into the bathroom. Tempted, almost, to listen in, Warren respected her wishes and kept guard. Not that it mattered, really, but at least he could pretend he was doing something while she did whatever she was doing.

Not five minutes later, Darcy came out of the bathroom. Her glamour was dropped, leaving her in her natural state, star-bursted hair, glowing green eyes, a cast like gold on ivory for her skin. Seeing her like that made him extremely uncomfortable.

"Here. Here's the coordinates. But you'll have to fly there." She was breathless, one hand almost touching the wall for support. "She said you wouldn't have any trouble once you got there. She said-"

Suddenly, her body was falling and Warren caught it automatically. He'd never held someone who was complete dead weight. Her arms, one caught between them and the other dangling loosely off the side, flailed about with his every movement. Her eyes weren't all the way shut, a thin white sliver showing starkly between her black eyelashes. The scene at the restaurant came back into his mind, but he couldn't tell if she was conscious or not. She certainly didn't hang that way, draped as though dead. A shiver worked down his spine.

Then, her eyelids flickered, and she came to, staring at him.

"Well. This is familiar." She smiled, a little, lips stretching into a pale imitation of the somewhat misshapen grin he normally associated with her. "You don't mind if I stay like this, do you?" Then, her mistake. "No, no, I mean without the glamour. It's not draining, but after doing so much… I'm not used to it. Here. I can stand."

And she did, fighting against his hands that tried to help her. She handed him a piece of paper, coordinates written on the back of it.

"You used your powers on Principal Powers." She nodded, still unstable. "But she's a woman."

Darcy chuckled, more an exhalation of breath than a laugh. "Don't you know? When it comes down to it, we all want the same thing."

"Really."

"Yeah. We all just want to be wanted."

A long pause, then, harsher than he intended. "How profound."

"Innit? Now, you do realize that you can't fly. This is pretty… worthless."

"Who says I can't fly?"

* * *

Two days later, Warren was exhausted. He'd been practicing flying ever since Darcy had gotten the coordinates. His mother's letters had been vague, describing a 'feeling' more than how to actually do it. Physics books now littered his room, all about heat and thermodynamics and a bunch of other things he practically fell asleep reading. Every day, he'd go out to Carroway Woods and find a clearing, just trying to get a few inches off the ground. Problem was, he had always started with his hands, even inadvertently, and to fly required using at least your legs. Unless he was going to fly using a handstand, he was going to have to figure out how to start up his legs. It proved more difficult than guessed. 

He'd invited Darcy for today, since all his practicing had amounted to something the day before. It wasn't so much a sport to learn, but a switch to be flicked. Once he knew how to do it, he just knew. Probably the worst explanation he could ever come up with, but that's what it was.

Someone was tromping through the forest, and it was Darcy, who lost her glamour as soon as she stepped into the clearing. Actually, he was getting used to that appearance. Her smile was shaky, and she didn't move quickly.

"Still a bit tired from the other day," she said to his look. "So, space cadet, you gone up yet?"

"Several times."

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Don't you want to tag along?" He said it automatically, but the question banged around his head. Why had he asked her to come? Companionship? Stronghold's clique hadn't ever sat well with him, and Darcy seemed as much a screw-up as he was. Besides, if something were to go wrong and he to go down for it, someone else was going to take that fall too.

"Sure. But, uh, just how good are you with this thing? I don't want to go crashing to the earth or something. 'Cause that, would suck."

He flicked it on in his legs, feeling the power, the indescribable rush that his mother had felt, allow him to lift a few inches above the ground. Darcy's finely shaped eyebrows went up into her hair. Setting back on the ground, Warren glanced her way.

"Alright, alright. It looks okay. But, uh, have we got the holding situation down? I mean, are you gonna burn me up? Because, as great as that sounds, I'd rather not be a crispy."

"I've been reading my mother's letters. She says that she can expand the shield around people in physical contact with her."

"Have you ever tried this?"

"No."

"Well that's fantastic." Her voice shook, betraying her nervousness. She stepped forward, arms half-raised, smiling uncertain. "Don't try anything crazy, Tolstoy – I'm still a bit wary from our previous encounter."

"Are you finished?"

"And don't grab my ass. It's a good ass, a nice one, but it doesn't like to be grabbed." Darcy pursed her lips, tapping a finger against them. "Yep. That's it."

When she stepped closer, Warren did as well, trying to get his arms around her so they could rise up. Problem being, Darcy was much too tall, putting their faces almost equal, enough difference so that her eyes mashed into his nose, and her nose mashed into his mouth. Her elbows collided with his, and in order to get close enough, she had to put her arms low around his waist.

They didn't fit well together at all, jangling and jostling, and Warren was fairly certain a bruise was going to form across his ribs now.

"This might be the worst idea ever."

"Turn around." She did, without complaint, and it was easier. His arms wrapped nicely around her torso and she reached back to hold onto his shoulders. They still fidgeted into place, but at least it was reasonably more comfortable.

He concentrated, imagining the shield around him. His power was always red in his mind, but he imagined the shield blue, a cooling, soothing contradiction to the fire. It was so close to his skin and clothes, molecules away, and he imagined it extending over Darcy, her drab clothes and slickly pulled-back hair. Finished, or at least what he guessed was finished, Warren turned on his power. Only in his hands first, where it always started, but he'd found out that he needed to be fully 'on' for the distance flight to work. Then, when Darcy didn't cry out in pain, he let it spread.

"I can't believe I'm on fire," she whispered, looking down at her body. "What's it feel like?"

He whispered too, someone finding reverence in the moment. "A release. Like I've been holding my breath, only I didn't realize it until I let it go."

"Yeah… that's exactly what it feels like." She closed her eyes, her lashes too dark against pale skin. Then, opening them again, she nudged his ribs a little. "Let's get going – we don't have all day, do we?"

"Are you bossing me around?"

"I'm a girl. It's what we stereotypically do. So hop to it." A smile tossed over her shoulder. "Please?"

He lifted them, and while Darcy was heavy, it wasn't too difficult. They were flying.

Not long after zooming quite efficiently through the lower part of the sky (after all, the clouds would not help the fire situation), they reached the coordinates listed on the piece of paper. Darcy looked around, then shrugged her shoulders.

"I see nothing."

"It's higher up," he said, and couldn't stop the grimace coating his words.

"Probably. Or, you know, a super secret cloaking shield thing. Or it's actually in the shape of a cloud! Or it's that flying saucer that everyone sees. Or-" He rocketed up through the clouds, the dampness alerting every system in his body, causing it to burn hotter. When he cleared the clouds, a large circular building floated in front of them. "Or it could be higher up. Okay. Wow."

Huge. The building was so enormous, it made Sky High look like a one-room shack. A faint sheen cast over it, a sort of shimmer, that you couldn't look at it directly and see it. The walls were tall, mother-of-pearl colored, nearly pulsing with… power, he guessed. There was a small entrance; black, pulsing with the same power vibe, but a somewhat dirty look, as though someone had poured malice on water.

"I don't want to know how that stays up. Are we going for a closer look Tolstoy?" When he nodded, she sighed loudly. "Damnit. Thought so."

The ledge leading up to the one entrance was small, barely enough for them to fit on together. Eventually, Warren had to link one arm with hers so that he could be closest to the door and so that she didn't fall off. But what to do? Knock? It was a prison, wasn't it? Knocking seemed out of place.

"Who comes?" The voice boomed, in a different matter from Coach Boomer, of course, surrounded them and pressed down with power. Immediately, he knew he couldn't lie to that voice. Or at least, trying would be futile.

"Warren Peace and D-Helena Troy." When Darcy nudged him, he added: "P-Diana Powers sent us."

A few moments passed. Through Warren wondered if they'd get kicked off or zapped or zinged or blown up, the door opened into a brightly lit hallway. There were many doors, but no windows. The light didn't even come from fixtures – it just glowed from the ceiling. Darcy huddled too close to him, and he had to shrug her off several times.

"This is creepy."

Warren had his hand along the wall, running it across the smooth surface, never feeling the bumps of the doorways or any imperfection in the paint. It didn't feel like a building. It almost felt like the prison was something alive. A crazy idea. But so were powers. So were powers. His boots clicked on the floor, while Darcy's Chucks only whispered, like shadows were following him. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

"What? Why'd you stop?" Darcy huddled again, clenching his jacket in her fists. "Not that I'm scared or anything, it's just, uh, cold in here, and you're, uh, warm. Yep."

There was a handprint in the door, the same shiny white as the walls outside, pulsing. There were no other markings on the door, nothing to suggest any kind of monitoring system. A second's hesitation, then, shrugging off Darcy, he put his hand in the print. The door faded away.

"This is the creepiest prison ever. This is the prison you don't invite to the prison office parties because it would do creepy stuff like fade away." Ignoring her, Warren stepped through. He was in another white room. Darcy followed right behind him. "Oh great. This is just-"

"Why are you talking so much?" When he glanced back, she was bright red.

"I guess, when I get nervous or scared, I talk a lot."

Silence. "Do you want to hold my hand?"

She paused even longer. "Are you going to make fun of me if I say yes?"

"…not at the moment."

"Then, yes." So he grabbed her hand, which was cold and sweaty and trembling, and tightened his grip.

Another handprint, and he put his up again. Only this time, there was a faint shudder through him, making Darcy suck in a breath, then the whole wall faded. The room wasn't white this time. Instead, it was a pale blue, soothing almost, if you could handle the lack of windows (though one had been crudely painted on one wall, depicting an ocean with whales surfacing). The only furniture was a metal cerulean-painted meticulously-made bed fused to the wall with equally pale sheets, and a muted-white rudimentary chair. In one far corner, there was a toilet and sink, gleaming with the same painted blue as the bed. Much too much blue in the room.

Against the far left wall, there was a man. He was dressed in a white jumpsuit, starkly contrasting with the kindergarten softness of the room. Hair, thick, curly, and black, was pulled back into a frenetic ponytail, skinny wrists too pale for his natural color, head hung low. He had his back to them, arms up and legs spread, and Warren had the feeling that this weird sentient prison wasn't letting him move from that spot.

Warren took a deep breath. "Barron Battle?"

"Names today, then? Not Prisoner 4601?" The voice was harsh with sarcasm, but also ragged with disuse, a slight accent, deep. Warren tried not to let the realization that that was _his_ voice seep into his mind. The man's wrists fell, and he slumped against the wall, before picking himself up, spine ramrod straight. Then, he turned, and Warren was glad Darcy gasped, so he didn't have to.

They were exact copies of each other. The hair was curlier, no red streaks, his body a little worn, face lined, and glasses slipping down his nose, but the resemblance was unmistakable. There was a dullness in the man's eyes that sharpened when he could see who stood there.

"Impossible," the older man whispered, leaning away, but taking a step forward.

"Are you Barron Battle?" He needed the question answered. He knew, he wasn't blind, but he had to hear it. Darcy let out a whimper as he crushed her hand.

"You're Warren." The man took a step closer, hand out to brush the red streak in his hair. "You have Louisa's streak. And her eyes."

That had to be right, since Barron's eyes were a bright blue. Warren tried to step away, but his legs wouldn't move. He tightened his grip again, and some distant part of his mind tried vainly to have concern for Darcy's hand.

"Are you Barron Battle?"

"Yes." The eyes shone with tears. Warren felt a bit light-headed. Barron was closer, hands still hovering as though they longed to touch but couldn't quite make themselves. His eyes were greedy, drinking up the sight of him, tears slipping past the glasses every so often.

Fire gathered in his palm, Darcy snatched away her hand, and he clenched his fist towards Barron.

"You killed my mother." And he let it go.

Or, tried to.

Turns out, the prison was much like the detention room at Sky High. It nullified all powers, so he felt the power gather, but nothing happened. Furious, he leapt out to… to do something. Something physical and painful and to smash the tears and awed look off Barron Battle's face. But Darcy grabbed him, lunging and wrapping arms around his waist.

"Just hold on Tolstoy-" He struggled, elbowing the soft part of her stomach.

"I didn't kill Louisa."

Quiet, so quiet, that Warren calmed to hear it, that Darcy pulled back to cradle her stomach, that Barron's face was full of determination.

"Everyone's said-"

"I didn't kill her."

"You're in prison for four life sentences-"

"For something I didn't do. I didn't kill her."

"Then what happened?"

Barron sat in the rickety chair, motioned for them to sit on the bed. It wasn't very big, but Darcy stayed clear away from him. Warren laced his fingers to prevent the itching in them from turning into violence.

"There were always battles in the old days. Villains would come up with insane plots, attempt to carry them out, and be defeated by heroes. Most villains know that they'll be defeated; it's just a job to us. Sure, there are some idealists, but EVA usually apprehends those before any massacres breakout. I wasn't… I wasn't regarded very highly in the villain community. I just had battles; then let them go." He seemed almost sheepish, pushing his glasses up. "The HC got it into their heads that there shouldn't be any villains, a stupid thing if you ask me, putting themselves out of work, and began capturing villains. I… had a confrontation with the Commander, Kaiser, and Louisa – Firefly. It starts to get blurry after that, I'm sorry, but things went wrong. It was a simple battle, I didn't Alter too much. The Commander was threatening me with some HC sanctions that I wouldn't have a part of. Louisa – Firefly tried to convince me for the best. That upset me, them making her believe things she didn't. There was an argument, they wanted me to calm down, they threatened Louisa, and I grappled with Kaiser.

"I was angry, I remember that, and so I kept Altering while I didn't mean it." He pinched his nose, teeth clenching. "I startled them. And… then I was unconscious. I woke up here. And here I've been for eleven years."

The explanation was severely lacking. "So you blacked out, and I'm supposed to believe nothing happened."

"I would never hurt-"

"I know. That's what everyone's been saying. But they've all been villains. No hero has made the claim that you were a throwaway villain, that you weren't a threat." Warren stood.

"You think you can trust the heroes more than the villains?" Something slithered across Barron's face, and it was smirking knowledge, experience. "Just because they've convinced the most people they're right, doesn't mean they are."

"I don't know what to believe." Had he been anyone else, it would've sounded like desperation. "I don't know what the truth is."

"Out of the only people who do, one is dead, one is missing, and the last is a superhero. If you could somehow get in contact with the Commander…" Barron's face held too much melancholy.

"I'll do my best," Warren said. He'd reserve judgment, then, until that time. Until he knew everything.

"We better leave."

He looked back to see Darcy right behind him, one eyebrow raised. "Why?"

"Well, you know, this is the part in the movie where the hero and his beautiful sidekick get trapped in some super-complicated trap involving fire bursts at regular intervals and a shootout."

"…what?"

"She's right," Barron said, standing to join them. "There aren't many guards at this prison, but I'm an inmate they keep close eye on. You two had better go."

"See? I'm right some of the time."

Barron gave Warren a glance that could only mean terrible, terrible things. "Is this your girlfriend?"

Before Warren could vehemently protest, Darcy grabbed his hand, twined their fingers. "Yes. We've been dating for a few months now. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Battle."

"Call me Barron," he said softly, tracing fingers over Darcy's cheekbone before pressing a kiss against her cheek. Then, Darcy was pulling him quickly away, and Warren had hardly processed what happened. They were out of the building, teetering on the little ledge, when he confronted her.

"What was that about?"

"Hmm?"

Heights terrified her; he could see it in the way she pressed against the door. "You told my father that you were my girlfriend."

"Wow, is the worst place ever to have this conversation." She stared straight at him, eyes the eerie silvery-green. "Didn't you see it? In his face?"

"Obviously, you aren't thinking of the same thing I am."

"He cares about you. A lot. He wants to be part of your life, wants to know what's going on, how you're doing. What were you going to say? That I was some random girl who'd concealed everything about herself and the only reason she was in the prison was because everyone else you were close to, you were fighting with?"

Warren said nothing.

"He wanted you to be okay. He wanted to know that he didn't screw you up completely. Some lies are harmless. Letting an old man believe his son turned out unscarred… it doesn't seem too bad to me."

"You've been getting your philosophies from the fortune cookies again," he said, the joke not quite covering up the acknowledgement of the truth in her words. Luckily, she could tell the difference.

"They just happen to fall into my hands all the time – what was I to do? _Not_ eat them?" She turned around, stretched out her arms. "Grab hold, Tolstoy. Let's get out of here."

They got back into position, more awkwardly this time with such a small space, and he didn't quite like the way she fell against him. She was more scared than she'd allow herself to let on.

"You know," she whispered, but keeping her face away. "I believe him. That he didn't hurt your mom."

He didn't say anything for a while. Then, "So do I."

* * *

"This is the beginning. This is where the world starts to reclaim its purity and let the mongrels drown. When puppies come out wrong, children, the best thing to do is snap their necks." She paused in front of one of the four chained up figures, petting a hand along his blue-striped hair. "I doubt you realize the severity of the situation. You go to that ridiculous school, play with your toys, relax with your friends. And for what? So you can perpetuate the disease? There used to be strict entrance exams. There used to be control. Now, they let anyone in. 

"You." She pointed to a girl with purple in her hair, purple and black clothes ragged and torn. "A guinea pig? Do you have any idea what the Shifters used to be able to do? They used to have several animals! They used to shift from leopard to bear to elephant. They had power. Now… now you've tainted the line. It's ridiculous. But the Lehnsherr Academy will fix this. Villains have become a joke. Heroes hunt them easily; they don't even bother to imprison us anymore. But in the Lehnsherr Academy, villains will be trained for death. To inflict it, to withstand it, to rise again. The mixing of blood is a terrible thing. But we will solve it. There will be justice."

"Is it just me, or is a villain talking about justice a tad hypocritical?" They'd spent three minutes coming up with a line for Will, but the improv proved better, if the look on Katastrophe's face was anything to go by.

"You have no business here. I have no problem with you."

"No problem? That's my girlfriend! I have a problem with that!"

"You see," Layla started, taking a step forward. "Heroes don't care about blood. We want to help everyone."

There was a gap of silence, and the other three turned to glance at Warren pointedly.

"With our powers combined…"

"Only four of you? And you expect to defeat me? Children really have lost their wits."

"Count again," said Ethan, releasing the last of the chained four. "I believe it's nine."

The stakes weren't as high as in the battle with Royal Pain. For one thing, no one was a baby. For another, once Warren had told the others what Chiauci thought of Katastrophe, she lost her scary factor. A fight sang in Warren's blood, but he was denying that part of him. He watched. Katatrophe immediately tried to Alter the scene; being frightened, she did little more than change the colors of the wall. Will was doing some fancy tying up with a metal pole while Layla called the parched bushes from outside to hold their owner captive as well. He was pretty sure Magenta had bitten the woman several times. Once the bushes had come inside, the black kid (Nathan, wasn't it?) touched their branches and succeeded in furthering the container around Katastrophe. The only other girl, Dana, did several movements that made it seem as though she was breaking out in Riverdance, but ended up producing what looked like salve and bandages. Besides, the last kid, someone he didn't recognize, was crashing waves of water everywhere. He did not want to start spouting flame in that.

Katastrophe was defeated. Only the bottom half of her face showed, and she was spitting mad. It made Warren smile. While Will and Layla guarded Katastrophe, the rest of the group left to make an anonymous phone call to report Katastrophe captured. The freed kids, Dana, Nathan and Arman, agreed to not tell who was behind her release. When the familiar uniforms of the Commander and Jetstream zoomed over their heads, the original group went back to the Stronghold manor.

"So, Ethan," Layla said, pulling liters out of the Stronghold 'fridge. "I'm really glad you showed up today. I was getting worried about you, since you hardly ever come over anymore."

Pause. "Oh well, um, there's a reason for that."

"Really? What's going on?"

"Well, uh." He pushed up his glasses, mortification spawning rapidly across his face. "Well, I'm dating someone." Everyone burst out in congratulatory nonsense. "His name is Alexander."

Everyone seemed to look at each other. "Well, I don't have a problem with that. Anyone else?"

Will's endorsement seemed to break the ice, and all of Ethan's weird absences, his distance, his excuses, all of them made sense. The air of the semi-party lightened, and their victory ran bubbly through their veins. The experience was a heady rush, and this was probably why most people with powers used them to fight. Luckily, Stronghold had lots of soda in his fridge, accompanied by chips and other various foods consumed by teens.

Warren sat by himself, to the side, watching as people he had only started to call friends milled about, made jokes. They were all so comfortable with each other, so much at ease. All of it unnerved him. Out of place, and making sure something occupied Layla, Warren managed to sidle out of the house He sat on the steps, took deep breaths, let the gentle light of the stars fall on his face.

Moments before she said anything, he knew she was there.

"Not quite being the social butterfly we know and love."

"I decided to take a break."

"Oh, of course." Darcy came out of the shadows, back to normal, closer but not sitting or even within arms-length. "And how did the big battle fair today?"

"Shouldn't you know? You were watching the whole time." Even in the dark, he saw the flush spring up to her hairline.

"Well. I guess I should. How fairs the party, then?"

"Tepid. This officially qualifies as stalking."

"Hey – ouch."

The door behind Warren opened, and Layla stepped out, all smiles and laughter. Her hand was on his shoulder, words falling out of her mouth.

"Hey Warren-" Then she noticed Darcy. Her mouth snapped shut pretty quick, and while there was undoubtedly a pleasant blank look on her face, Warren knew she was questioning. If he'd been there, he'd think the same thing. After all, the last place Layla had seen Darcy, she was a lowly worker at the restaurant. "Hello."

"Hey. I'm Darcy." She walked forward, fists clenched at her side. Probably the least welcoming stance a person could take. Tension ran through Layla's hand.

"She works at the restaurant."

"Yeah, I remember."

"She has powers."

"Oh." Then, Layla, warmly and without malice or mockery, smiled at Darcy. "I'm Layla. Nice to meet you. Do you want to come inside?"

While Darcy shot Warren a 'Hey-look-at-me!' glance, she followed Layla inside. Inside, whether it was easier with Layla or not, Darcy had to make her rounds to meet the rest of the gang. Then, as soon as Warren told them her power was 'to look pretty,' the newness wore off, and the party returned mostly to normal. Warren watched, as Ethan and Will made small talk with Darcy, as Layla laughed with Magenta, as Zach stared dazed at Magenta for too-long moments.

It all felt a little too much like a happy ending.

* * *

Apparently, Darcy and Stronghold had found something in common: soccer. They prattled incessantly, barely taking time to breathe when Layla said she had to go home, when the rest of the crew slowly trickled away. Warren had made up his mind it was best to not leave Darcy with Stronghold, but damnit, he was getting tired. Then, when Warren was fairly certain he was either going to just leave them at the mercy of each other or idly set something on fire, Will said something to the effect to 'Going to sleep now.' He blearily made his way up the steps; Darcy had a smile stretching her mouth. 

"Don't tell me you've been waiting." She let out a laugh at his face. "Yeah, yeah. Mr. Chiang would kill you if you just left me here by myself. I got it. You were raised right."

They were out of the house, barely off the porch, when Mr. Stronghold came home. He'd been out on realtor business, if the casual plaid shirt and khakis were any indication. Warren froze, and Darcy stopped chattering, even if she didn't know why.

"Hey kids," Mr. Stronghold said companionably. Then, almost a double-take, he didn't put the key in the lock, instead turning back to stare at Warren. "You… look familiar."

Anger wound tightly in his stomach. "I've been told I look a lot like my father: Barron Battle."

Mr. Stronghold blanched, friendly face turning more forced. He spared a look at Darcy, but she didn't look like any former foes' children. "Warren Peace. Will told me he's made friends with you. I'm glad you two are getting along."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you Mr. Stronghold. I've been told you knew my mother."

"Oh, Louisa." The way he said it, the way his eyes softened, Warren felt sick, and he couldn't breathe. He'd thought he had been furious when he first saw Will, when he knew that kid's father had imprisoned his. He thought he knew anger. But this… this wrapped around his brain, made him dizzy, made surges of pain wrack his chest. And he couldn't breathe.

"I wanted to know," he paused, taking deep breaths, "if you knew how she died."

Mr. Stronghold's jaw worked, his eyes shifting between the two of them, hands first on his waist, then his belt, then crossed. "I'm sorry, son, but this is going to be hard for you to hear. Your father, well, things got out of hand, and he… he killed her."

"No!"

"I'm sorry-"

"That's not the truth!"

"I don't know what you've been told-"

And suddenly, Darcy spoke up.

"This arguing will never solve anything." Both men looked at her. Warren knew he was angry, but he couldn't help staring at her. In fact, the whole problem with Mr. Stronghold didn't really seem that big. He reached out his hand to touch her, to hold her hand, but Darcy pulled back, smiled a little. A beautiful smile. Why were they still here? They could be back at his place…

"Warren, would you do something for me?"

"Anything." And he would. He could feel it. If she asked him for his heart, he'd rip open his chest. She needed him, and it made him feel smug, made him glance at Mr. Stronghold, sneer at the older man. Clearly, she knew who she wanted.

"I want you to flare you powers." He frowned. He couldn't touch her if he was on fire. "Just a little Warren, just your hands, or up to your forearms if you want. Just keep it on until I tell you to stop, okay? Don't stop until I tell you, alright?"

"Alright." He wished she had asked him to do something harder. Like maybe set Mr. Stronghold on fire, or fly her up to the moon or –

As soon as he flared his arms, Warren's brain came snapping back into place. He could feel the need to please Darcy stoppered up inside, as though he'd put a cork on a tube, but he could control it, withstand it. He stared at her, not out of the awestruck wonder of before, but a different kind of wonder, and the tiniest bit of fear.

"Don't ask questions Warren." A direct order, and the bottled up part was eager to agree. It was worse like this, because he knew he didn't want to obey that, but a part of him had to. A slave. He was a slave to her commands.

Darcy put both her hands around Mr. Stronghold's wrists, never breaking eye contact.

"Tell me what happened, Mr. Stronghold-"

"Steve," he breathed, mouth going slack again.

"Alright. Tell me what happened Steve. Tell me about the day when Louisa Peace died."

"I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I usually sleep on the left, but that day I didn't."

"Not that far back Steve. Tell me just leading up to when Louisa Peace died. Tell me about the battle with Barron Battle. Did he kill her?"

"No. Of course not. Barron Battle is a joke. He never hurt any of the heroes. But we had to capture him. He's the most powerful Re-Alter in history. If he ever decided to use that power for harm, terrible things would happen. We had to capture him."

"It's okay Steve," Darcy said, soothing. Part of Warren got angry, wanted to knock her hands off him and put a fireball right in Mr. Stronghold's gut. He couldn't believe Darcy's power was this… powerful. "Just tell me what happened. Tell me how Louisa Peace died."

"It's never easy to capture a Re-Alter. We would never be able to capture Barron without Louisa's help. We asked her to come with us, and she did. We met up with Barron, and there was a fight. He wasn't going to come in, and he started Altering too much, started confusing us. We couldn't take control of the battle. So, I grabbed Louisa, I put my arms around her, and I threatened Barron. I told him that we would be forced to hurt Louisa. He panicked.

"He began Altering even worse. He was upset, out of control. He was always such an emotional guy. Then, during an Alter, Kaiser fell. I tried to grab him, tried to keep my grip on Louisa as well. I… I lost Kaiser. I killed Louisa. I crushed her spine." Tears fell out of the too-bright blue eyes. "I was only doing my job. You can't blame me. There was no way the HC could let out that a hero messed up so badly. So, they blamed it on Barron. He had passed out, having used his powers so much and too fast, and he didn't remember a thing. What was I supposed to do?"

"It's okay, Steve. Thank you for being so honest. Now, listen to me Steve, I want you to go inside and go to bed. I want you to forget this conversation. You came home to find Warren Peace with a friend of his. You two talked about how great it is that Warren and Will are friends. Then, we left and you went to bed. That's all. You'll forget this ever happened." He opened his mouth to protest. "Don't worry; I'll come back for you, okay? You just have to forget any of this ever happened, okay?"

He nodded, squeezed her hands one last time, then went inside, wiping his tears. Darcy slumped against the closed door, taking huge gulping breaths. Warren was tempted to turn off his powers, check if she was alright, but her orders still prevailed, and while her power was on, he couldn't contradict them. Shakily, she put up her hands, palms facing him.

"Grab my hands, Warren." He raised an eyebrow, looking at her. "No, don't turn off your powers yet, just grab my hands."

Helpless, he did. Gripped them so their fingers entwined. It was an odd sensation, to grab someone with his powers on. He could feel the shield around his fingers, and the heat of the flame, and he could feel her fingers. He could feel the fire burning her. She made a noise, a high-pitched whimper, before clenching his hands harder. Then, she released.

"Turn'em off. Go ahead." He did, and her powers were off, her body slumped against the door still, but her eyes weren't heavy. Her eyes were wide open.

With the _need_ gone, anger slammed into him full-force. He walked, stiffly, down the stairs, down the path, into the middle of the street. Darcy followed. They were two houses away from the Stronghold residence. He looked back. Darcy's face was normal, but there tears streaming from her face, like water had been dunked over her head.

"What?" She started, then hung her head a little.

"I've ruined him. They never forget, you know. They never forget me. And it drives them mad. There's a little part of them that never recover. I can never seem them again, and they'll always know me on sight. That's what happened with my father. I couldn't control the powers – they're either off or full-on. He just became obsessed. My mom didn't know what to do. And he… he… I had to leave. I had to-" She glanced up, eyes shining, and the pain was so blatant on her face. "I'm a terrible person. Did you… did you understand what Mr. Stronghold said?"

He grew a fireball in his hand and launched it at the nearest row of hedges. Then, as though that released something, he began spouting fire. Fire everywhere, all over his body, and he threw it as fast as he could. The street started brightening. His throat started hurting, and he realized he'd been screaming. The last of the fireballs fell from his hands, hitting the base of a willow and spreading the flames slowly up it. He looked around. Everything was on fire. Houses, lawns, trees, bushes. Everything.

Darcy pulled on his arm. "Come on. We have to leave. If they find you, they'll charge you with arson. We have to go now."

He resisted. All the damage he'd caused… it was building in his eyes, everything on fire, everything he'd started. The first hedge was already a blackened pile of ashes.

"Warren, we have to go."

He looked down at her hands, tugging insistently. "Your hands. They're fine."

Darcy smiled, a little desperate, but a little mischievous. "I took some of your strength. It didn't drain you, because I was taking the energy of the fire. Only people with very active powers can transfer energy. People like you, like Layla, like Will." Her eyes darted around nervously. "We gotta get out of here. We can run for a while, if you can carry us after that."

"'Us?' 'We?'" Blush spread heavily over her face.

"You didn't expect the story to end without the heroine falling for the hero, did you?"

"I'm no hero."

She grabbed his hand. "And I'm no heroine."

They broke into a run, just as the sirens sounded.

* * *

Sitting down at the table, Will smiled at breakfast. Mom was so good about these things. Bacon, eggs, toast, cereal, pancakes – oh the busy days of school would end this all. So, he indulged and enjoyed while he could. Dad came downstairs, stretching in his work clothes. 

"Morning Will."

"Morning Dad. Did you get home late?" He plowed into the bacon. Oh Mom, never stop cooking.

"Yeah. I met some of your friends. Warren Peace?" Dad smiled, grabbed toast.

"Oh yeah? Did you meet Darcy too?"

"Then I leave and go to bed."

Will ate another bite of toast before the words sunk into his head. He glanced up at his father. Mom was giving him a strange look as well, her hands stalled over the skillet.

"What?"

Dad shook it off. He smiled, stole a piece of bacon from Will. "Don't study too hard kiddo. Gotta keep the brain in tact for school!"

Will groaned, his parents kissed him good-bye, and he jumped up on the counter to watch some TV while he finished breakfast. Hmm. Nothing good on. Why didn't summer broadcasting have as much stuff as during school? He flipped through the channels, bored. The superhero channel came on, and he sat back to watch the news report. Geez, even that was boring.

Breaking News appeared across the bottom of the screen, and Will reached over to grab some more toast.

As the broadcast progressed, Will forgot about his toast. Actually, his toast fell from his hand and crumbled on the floor. He lunged across the counter for the phone.

"_It is unknown whether Firewing and Ishtar come from the growing villain school, the Lehnsherr Academy. However, it is undeniable that the two are extremely dangerous; a threat to all superheroes and sidekicks. While Ishtar remains anonymous, it has been confirmed that Firewing is indeed son of the late superhero Firefly and the notorious villain Barron Battle – Warren Peace. We will bring you live updates as more information is gathered."_

"Layla? Turn on your TV. We've got a problem."

* * *

_finis_


End file.
